All This Could Be Different

by Sarah Thankam Mathews

I never did find my keys, and had to ask the Fiancé for a spare set. When I walked into work that Monday, Peter beckoned me over. Have you been enjoying the apartment? he asked. I nodded, eyes widening in fear. He showed me an email exchange on his phone. Amy had written a long letter of complaint about me to my landlord. Stacy had forwarded it to Peter with two words: pls advise. The email made it sound as though Keith Richards and Hugh Hefner had assumed tenancy. It made references to 3 a.m. parties where people climbed out on the roof. A vision of a future where I had an expired EAD, no sponsor, no option but to leave, to return dragging my suitcases up the red laterite of my family’s yard—this was what flashed before my eyes.