open//first steps

[Tootsie]

Deep breath. Breathe out.

Lift your left foot and put it down. Good. That's good. Breath again. Keep your eyes on the floor. That'd be best. Hold on to the rail. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Lift your right foot. Go on, you can do it, just put it down now. Breathe in! Breathe in! Breathe out now. Good.

Any idiot can do that, go on, just repeat it. Open that door. Repeat it all again. Keep your eyes up.

This was Tootsie's mantra as she walked down the steps from the Lodging House, and she repeated it again and again as she walked down to the World Distribution Center. She could do this.

It wasn't a pain anymore, for a burns had healed as far as they would go three days ago (the Queens newsies had confirmed it, though telling her to stay in bed for a few more days), but it was more like a discomfort. The tightness of the burn, or her leg, but also on her face, was a constant reminder that had Tootsie full of anxiety. Blinking was odd, the way her cheek seemed to try to hold back her eye at times. When she placed her leg down, a quick tightness toward the back where her muscle was. It was all so new.

All so shameful.

But Tootsie knew better than to dwell on these facts, because she was better now, and she'd have to start selling double, because she owed Queenie money from her rent. And she'd get lazy if she didn't start selling now. So she moved with the crowd, head ducked down, her cap pulled down over her face slightly to the right.

Occasionally, she made a nervous movement. She'd tug on her hair to cover her cheek, or she'd do the same with her hat. She pulled on her skirt too, messing with the bow on her blouse.

She moved to the window, placing her money on the counter and mumbling. "70 papes please." She laid down her money, taking her paper and moved away, counting them before setting them over her shoulder and heading back towards the Bronx, hawking headlines.

If she could get back to her normal rhythm, she'd forget this pain she felt.

outfit