Wednesday. Four days after Paris was almost killed. It seems much longer, and yet, it seems like it just happened. Time is the first thing to go in a period of crisis because it’s simply no longer important. If someone you love is hovering between life and death, what does an hour or a day really mean? With this mentality, I make it through the day at work. I keep my nose to myself and don’t mind so much the snubs that are pointedly aimed at me; most of them sail right over my head. I receive an email from Libby accusing me again of trying to sabotage her wedding, and I barely flinch as I delete it. This feeling of detachment is marvelous, and I wish I could cultivate it permanently. I idly consider meditation or becoming a Buddhist, but it seems like too much effort. I decide that it’s much easier to be in denial than to reach nirvana, and it feels pretty much the same. I remember that I half-promised my mom I would talk to Libby about her ‘if there is a wedding’ statement, but I don’t have the energy. When this case is over and Paris is better, then I’ll talk to her.
After work, I take the bus to the Tenderloin where Jenna lives. It’s not that she doesn’t have money—she’s one of those white-bread liberal girls who thinks she has to show her compassion by living in what’s possibly the worst neighborhood in San Francisco, an area even I wouldn’t live in. She’s also the one who flipped when Paris broke up with her after a month, threatening to sue him for breach of promise and an assortment of other spurious claims. She would show up at his gym and start screaming at him, then cry when he tried to calm her down. He quickly learned that the best way to deal with her was to not engage her at all because she thrived off the interaction, no matter how small. Just as he was about to get a restraining order slapped on her, she stopped. I hadn’t liked her while Paris was dating her, and I certainly didn’t like her when she stalked him. I am careful to keep my purse next my body as I press the buzzer to her apartment.
“Yes?” Her nasally voice grates on my ears. She’s from one of those Midwest states and came to the Bay Area to study archeology or something equally boring.
“Jenna? It’s Rayne. Paris’s friend. I need to talk to you.” Belatedly, I realize that she might not want to talk to me.