Intrusive

It wasn’t like that when you left, it wasn’t.

The label faces to the left when you see it again, the clear amber apple juice sloshing as she yanks the fridge door open again.

Open. Close. Glass rattles. Light on. Open. Close. Fridge shakes. Open. Close.

The bottle of apple juice faces left. But when you were in the fridge at 10 pm, it faced forward. You remember it: the three droplets on the apple pictured on the front. It was there. Now at 4 am, when you woke for a glass of water, it faces backward. And other than your roommate, who’d gone to bed a 9:30 pm, no one else was in the house.

Not now. But there was. There was someone in the house.

Open. Close. Scan the rest of the fridge. The container of asiago cheese is still on top of the eggs. The white wine is at the same level, right below the “P” in pinot grigio.

Open. Close. Crouching and leans in until your nose is only a few inches from the apple juice. Shit, how full was it earlier?

Someone was here.

Open. Close.

You stare, then close your eyes. Close the door and decide that’s the last time you're opening that door, goddamn it. Your eyes open. Veins and tendons stand out on the back of your hand still gripping the handle. Your pulse jumps in her wrist.

Someone was in the house. They were in the fridge.

When?

When you were asleep. You’re a heavy sleeper Your lock is finicky. You know this.

You do. You check the lock every night and every time you leave and sometimes when you’re just sitting around. Even when it latches, there’s a slight give to the door, the round lock twisting millimeters to the right as you lock it.

It’s easy for anyone to get in if they really wanted. Just like Facebook said.

The post. The two break-ins in nearby neighborhoods, both older woman who lived alone. You’re a young college student, though, with a roommate, and you live in an apartment building, nothing like the other incidents.

They have to switch it up to not get caught. Maybe they live in one of these apartments. Maybe they’re your neighbors.

You tear the door open, stare longer than necessary, cold air blasting your face, forcing that thought away. Away, because that’s not true, that can’t be true.

They were robbing the place and got thirsty. The apple juice is at the front. Easy access.

But your laptop was on your desk when you woke up, your phone and wallet too, with your cards in the same order. You checked. Those were the missing valuables in those other break-ins.

Then they took Paula’s stuff. Her room is closer to the front door and she keeps hers open. Why risk opening yours? They don’t know you’re heavy sleepers.

But then they’d risk walking through the whole apartment to the kitchen for a sip of apple juice?

Thieving is thirsty work.

You choke on a laugh.

It’s stupid. The stupidest thought. So why do your hands shake.

You tug the door open again. Slam it shut before you can even look inside, force yourself to think: No. No stop. You don’t believe that.

You shouldn’t. But your pulse sprints, your stomach rolls in on itself, twists to the point where the nausea hurts, constricts the lungs and curls everything inward. Your arm not glued to the handle wraps around your abdomen. You can’t breathe.

You should go to bed. You really should. The sun will be up in an hour and you have work tomorrow. Today, really.

But what if they come back? Your thoughts are too loud, too fast to stop. Of course they’ll come back. They got away with it. They’ll leave the apple juice, but take something else, something you wouldn’t notice. Maybe a scoop of cereal from the cupboard if they’re hungry. Take a few grapes from the middle drawer of the fridge.

Open. Close.

Why stop at the kitchen? You have a couch they can sit on, watch some TV and leave the remote just as they found it after an episode or two. A few books they could thumb through.

Open. Close. Openclose.

Next time they probably will take your things.

OpencloseOPENCLOSE.

The door swings open and a small yogurt carton topples to the floor, jostled too close to the edge. It rolls, uneven shape sending it in a wide arc until it bumps against the dishwasher.

You’re reaching for it before you realize; when something falls, you pick it up.

It’s just a step or two away from where you’ve been standing (for how long?), and it takes only a few seconds to bend, grasp the plastic cup, rise, and turn back to the fridge. You freeze.

Now, you can see the white plastic handle a bit more clearly. Pitch black has given way to the dusty blue just before sunrise. How long have you been standing here in your striped pajama pants and and ratty old t-shirt?

You toss the yogurt on the counter, not caring where it lands, if it rolls right back onto the floor. You’re free. For this moment you’re free, and you speed walk out of the kitchen, speed walk down the hall. By the time you reach your room you’re practically sprinting.

The way you fling yourself to bed is reminiscent of a child throwing a tantrum. You caved in to compulsions. Your therapist will not be mad, and that makes it feel worse. As if of its own accord, your right hand curls around the memory of a handle. You're furious at yourself.

You clamp your eyes shut, don’t even throw on the covers. You count sheep, scan your body, all the sleeping techniques you’ve learned these past few months. They’ll take a while, and maybe you won’t even sleep. Probably won’t.

Open, the sheep jumps, close, it lands on the other side of the fence. Open…close.

The best you can do is rest your eyes during what little time you have. You’ll hear Paula get up and ready for work, be out the door before you, her commute is torture, you know. The alarm will blare sooner than you think.

And when you get up for work in a few short hours, you know your feet will drag you right back to the fridge.

You don’t quite fall asleep, but succumb to exhaustion.

***

You reach to open the fridge, dawn’s light crawling through the window, illuminating a sticky note that wasn’t there before: Txt me if we need anything. I drank some of your apple juice in the middle of the night, I’ll grab more! Luv ya!

Paula prefers notes, afraid a text would wake you up. The little smiley face she’s drawn at the end mirrors your own.

An explanation. Everything is ok. You open the fridge, stare at the apple juice facing the left. You turn it forward. Memorize the shadow of liquid behind the label coming midway through the hold of an “R” in “orchard”.

You’ll make sure it’s in the same spot later. You close the fridge.