Part 1 — I Was Tired of Drowning
Before I met Russell, I measured my life in envelopes.
Rent.
Electricity.
Groceries.
Bus fare.
Whatever remained after that was supposed to be mine.
Usually, nothing remained.
My apartment was small enough that I could stand beside the bed and almost touch the kitchenette counter. Rain slipped through the edges of a window that never closed properly, leaving the room damp and smelling faintly of wet concrete.
Most nights, dinner was instant noodles or whatever leftovers I could bring home from work.
I was thirty-two years old and working as a waitress, sometimes taking catering shifts on weekends just to stay ahead of the bills.
Ahead was probably the wrong word.
I was never ahead.
I was simply falling behind more slowly.
The night I met Russell, I had accepted a last-minute catering job at a charity gala.
The ballroom looked like another universe.
