Page 92 of Cackle

It’s okay, Annie.

“Sophie?” I say, tracing my fingers over the words written in what looks like red Sharpie. When I bring my hand away, the red has transferred to my fingertips. I rub my fingers together. It spreads. It’s fresh ink.

“Sophie? Is that you?”

Don’t worry.

The words have changed.

And they change again.

It’s one night.

“It’s miserable,” I say. “How did I ever think this was a good idea?”

It’s okay. You’re okay.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

The night is yours.

“What do you mean?”

Take it back.

Give them hell.

I run my fingers over the words again, and this time they disappear from the door altogether. There’s nothing there. It’s all on my hands now. They’re covered in sticky red ink.

I come out of the stall, and there’s a woman there with a flat mouth who’s looking at me like I’m a foul creature.

I wonder if she heard me talking. She must think I was talking to myself.

Or she sees my hands covered in red and thinks I’m indecent.

I avoid her on my way to the sink.

It takes a long time to wash the ink off of my hands. It requires a lot of soap, an aggressive lather. As I wash them, I look at myself in the mirror.

I hear Sophie’s voice in my head.

Take it back. Give them hell.

Why should I let these people ruin my night? Why should I let stupid Dan make me feel bad?

When I get back to the table, I sit up straight and pull my chair in. They’re all looking at me like I owe them an explanation. I don’t give them one.

“We were just talking about jobs,” Jill says. “Pascal works for his family’s logging business. In accounting.”

“Cool,” I say in a tone that makes it very clear I do not think it’s cool. I finish my whiskey and wave over the waiter. “May I have another, please?”

“What’s that?” Dan asks. “Your third?”

“You can count!” I say.

Jill does her awkward laugh. It sounds like a dying motor.

“Logging,” she says, “is really lucrative. Right, Pascal?”