The Fifth Floor

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I pushed the slim volume of poetry across my desk and into her lap. The woman with auburn hair, perfect posture, and a broken life picked it up.

“I can’t read this,” she said, and lifted her head.

“That’s because it’s in Latin,” I said. “Why don’t you take off the sunglasses?”

“Why don’t you translate for me?”

“Take off the glasses.”

The woman slid the dark frames up and off her face. Her left eye was green and watering. Her right was black and swollen shut. The cheekbone below it offered a study in shades of purple, blue, and yellow.

“You get the picture?” she said.

“The poem is by Catullus. First line reads Odi et amo. Translates as I hate and I love.”

“And this is my life?”

“People say it’s a love poem, but they’re wrong. It’s about abuse, about not being able to get out, even when the door is wide open and the whole world is yelling that very thing in your ear.”

“I can’t just leave. It’s not that simple.”

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