Inside

The silver grille of the entryphone reveals nothing. The motors that swing the heavy metal gate open are silent.  On the other side of the wall, the exclusive development where you stroked my hair; fed me unfamiliar salty olives.  I mash the buttons again, speed dialing you on the phone you bought me.

At the top of one of the towers you’ll be sitting on the huge bed where we lay for days on end, ignoring the telephone vibration, the delicate chime of the entryphone.

The file boxes with my things nearly fill my tiny room.  The delivery person left them outside. All the other women say I’m lying; sneer when I tell them where I once lived.  Last night a man tapped on the window and asked to come in.

You know I don’t belong out here now.  When we met in the club you lifted me up, told me you loved my thigh gap, my breasts.  I drew you into me with all my might.  I wished for this baby inside me.  You smiled as you opened the gate the first time.  “Welcome to my world,” you said.

“Let me back in,” I say.  The grille remains silent.