Part Two

Part Two -

The car moves forward in the dark, swings in to the parking lot.  She looks ahead, left, right, finds an empty space.  Parks.  Puts the car in park and removes the key.  Opens the door and turns outward.  And Pauses.  Is this what she should do?  It is what she wants to, needs to, has to do.  But, is it what she should do?  And turns inward, closing the door.  She lifts her hand to her throat, feels the silky softness of the cashmere, takes a deep breath.  Leans her head back against the headrest, forces herself to relax her shoulders, closes her eyes, turns her head to the left, the right.  Exhales.  Inhales.  Moves her head again to the right, over the shoulder, pushing just a bit to try to stretch out the tension and pain.

Is this in my best interest?

These are almost hated words, said once many years ago by a therapist who eventually made her feel sicker, who made the weight of whatever it was/is wrong in her brain heavier than it had been before she tried to sort through the dark tangle.

But, is it?  Will getting out of this vehicle, walking through those doors, taking in the darkness and the noise and the seduction of the hunt for tonight's comfort be in her best interest? 

It gives her pause.  Her left hand reaches up and her fingers rub over her lips slowly.  Damn, the lipstick will have to be reapplied.  If she goes forward.  Her hand returns to her lap.  Sighing again, she lifts her bottom to give her more room in the coat, easier access to the pocket where her lipstick lies.  Palming the tube in her right hand, she reaches up, flips down the make-up mirror, pulls the cover off, twists the tube, glides the color lightly over the lips, checks the corners of her mouth for caking.  Flips the mirror back in place and opens the door again.  She steps out of the car and stands, turns to close the door.  Clicks the locks with the remote.  The keys go in her coat pocket, the lipstick back in the pocket of her slacks.  And she walks forward to tonight's destiny.