She reached a hand up, as if to touch that section of the wall that was dirtied by the mold. The mold moved again, away from her hand, skittish. Then it seemed to change its mind. It pulsated, as if it was bubbling up, like tar, and it crooked a long, thin finger, beckoning her.
There were a thousand bees hiding in the walls, and she heard them buzzing as she pressed forward drowsily, intending to slide her lips against the mold. She’d run her hands across the shimmering gold patterns, and they would smell of earth and green, of rain, and then they would speak a thousand secrets.
The mold beat to the rhythm of her heart; they beat as one, and her lips parted.
The forgotten cigarette, still in her possession, burned Noemí’s skin, and she let go of it with a yelp. She quickly bent down and picked up the cigarette, tossing it into her makeshift ashtray.
She turned around to look at the mold. It was absolutely still. The wall looked like old, dirty wallpaper and had not changed even a little bit.
Noemí rushed into the bathroom and shut the door. She gripped the edge of the sink to keep herself steady. Her legs were about to fail her, and she thought, panicked, that she would faint.
She opened the faucet, splashing cold water against her face, unwilling to collapse even if it took all her damn might. Breathe and breathe again, that’s what she did.
“God damn it,” Noemí whispered, bracing herself with both hands against the sink. The dizzy spell was passing. But she wasn’t going out there. Not for a while, at least. Until she made sure…made sure of what? That she’d stopped hallucinating? That she wasn’t going mad?
Noemí slid one hand against her neck while she examined the other. She had a great, nasty burn between her index and middle fingers, where the cigarette had burned down to a stub. She’d have to obtain an ointment for that.
Noemí splashed more water against her face and stared into the mirror, her fingertips on her lips.
A loud knock made her jump back.
“Are you in there?” Florence asked. Before Noemí had time to reply, the woman opened the door.
“Give me a minute,” Noemí muttered.
“Why are you smoking when it’s forbidden?”
Noemí whipped her head up and scoffed at the inane question. “Yeah? I think the more important question is what the fuck is going on in this house?” Noemí said. She wasn’t quite yelling, but she was awfully close.
“What language! Watch how you talk to me, young girl.”
Noemí shook her head and closed the faucet. “I want to see Catalina, right away.”
“Don’t you dare order me around. Virgil will be here any minute and you’ll see—”
She clutched Florence’s arm. “Listen—”
“Take your hands off me!”
Noemí squeezed her fingers harder while Florence tried to push her away.
“What’s this?” Virgil asked.
He stood at the doorway, looking at them curiously. He had on the same pinstriped jacket that he’d worn in her dream. It gave her a jolt. She’d likely seen it on him before, which is why she’d pictured him wearing it in the first place, but she didn’t like this detail. It blended reality and fantasy together. It unnerved her enough to release Florence.
“She’s been breaking the rules, as usual,” Florence said, carefully smoothing back her hair even though it did not need to be smoothed. As if their brief confrontation could have upset her well-coiffed head. “She’s a nuisance.”
“What are you doing here?” Noemí asked, crossing her arms.
“You yelled, and I came to see if anything was amiss,” Virgil told her. “I imagine that’s the same reason why Florence is here.”
“Indeed,” Florence replied.
“I didn’t yell for anyone.”
“We both heard you,” Florence insisted.
Noemí had definitely not yelled. There had been noise, but that was the noise from the bees. Of course there were no bees, but that didn’t mean she had yelled. She would damn well remember if she yelled. The cigarette had burned her hands, but she hadn’t made that much noise and—