Recognizing demons used to be easy. They would appear in the mirror after chanting Bloody Mary’s name, in glimpses behind headstones, in gooseflesh creeping down the spine. Skulls amid the mist frightened beyond measure. But perhaps these demons, easily recognizable, are not the ones to fear.
Peg stares across the room at the closet door. She knows it is strange to have a closet in her office, but she is happy it's there. In fact, the closet is the reason Peg selected this office when given choice between this one and an office with a view of the garden plaza. A few years ago, she would have chosen windows. Now she is comforted by isolation. There is safety in solitude.
At home, Peg tries to avoid making noise. She has even taken to brewing coffee away from the house. The spit, hiss, and whoosh beckon.
Despite her attempts to evade notice, Peg cannot fully avoid diminishing her existence.
She flinches when he enters the kitchen, his shorts sagging below the waist, a cigarette hanging from his lip, and a script in his hand. He nods her way and holds her gaze a second or two too long.
They make her skin crawl, the looks she receives in the morning. It is almost as if she can be seen through to the core. He licks his lower lip and snakes a damp arm around her waist, painfully palming a handful of her backside.
