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When Silence Becomes A Song Felicity Wong
The elevator doors opened. I didn’t know what to expect eight years later. When I got out of bed this morning, I remembered the last words you said to me in your cursed Tribeca apartment. And as you walk out of the elevator, those are the only words I’m thinking about. Nothing about you—the sound of your heels hitting the ceramic floor tiling, your starch collar standing upright, the stacked brass rings on your long fingers— seems like the girl he left me for so long ago. I’m standing by the front desk, watching your every movement. Your eyes skim the people walking in and out of the hotel lobby. It’s the moment you recognize me—you turn your head, glance over, and immediately walk in my direction. And finally, you’re standing six feet away. You look right into my eyes. “Caroline.” “Ava.” We both nod at each other. There’s an awkward pause in the air that drowns out the dreary, nondescript hotel lobby music in the background. “How’s John?” I ask without a smile. You smile back. “I gave you that call yesterday, actually, because I want to talk about him. It’s about John.” As soon as those words escape your mouth, you stiffen up. I stiffen up. People swarm around us, oblivious to the tension brewing. I guide you to one of the leather couches in the lobby. You refuse to sit down until I motion you to. “What is it?” Whatever you say next, I’ll try not to care about. If it’s a “John and I are deciding to have a child, and we
