I close the door to my apartment in my back, and the sound the panel hitting the frame reverberates like a detonation against my eardrums, almost making the air morph and the living room tilt. I exhale shakily, while I lock the front door thoughtlessly. The Joker's latest display of insanity caused considerable damage, and we were at the center of it for hours, the injured or poisoned kept coming, along with... Numerous deaths. But it is over now.

The lukewarm water of my shower partly envelops me like a soothing, loving, moving bubble, simultaneously running coldly down the creases of my muscles like an intrusion. My throat feels tighter and drier by the second. I block out the screams, cries, bleeding wounds, streaks of ashes mingled with human remains... The noise of falling water reminds me of tires screeching, bizarrely transitioning into the sirens of an ambulance. I yank the shower's handle down, then I squeeze some shampoo into my right palm, breathing more steadily with the water turned off. Discarding all hesitation, I roughly pull the metallic lever upward. While I am rinsing the hair product out of my wavy strands of hair, using concise motions from my arched fingers, my day finally detaches itself from my memory. The discomfort and pain swirl down the drain, between my naked feet, as water splashes off my shoulders and drips energetically down my chest.

I step out of my claw-foot tub and shower combo, grabbing my light yellow bath towel. I begin drying my skin, distractedly reviewing my medium-sized bathroom, with my toes curled against the rough tattered bath mat upon the room's off-white tiled floor. The toilet is to my left, while my bath faces the door and the counters with their centered sink are to my right. My cabinet is tall and skinny, unfortunately wooden, and shoved next to the door between the wall and the counters. Its pale brown paint is peeling off because of the inherently humid state of its home. Silvery hooks and bars to hang towels are screwed into the wall on my left-hand side, close to the shower, above diverse storage methods and plastic bins, piled up miscellaneously on my floor. A smaller washed-out turquoise towel serves to dry my short hair, and once I am done with that meaningless task, I obtain my bathrobe from the single assortment of racks.

Walking barefoot in my insufficiently lit apartment, I drag my hands down the once fluffy dark gray material of my robe, stopping at the belt. Within eight steps, I am standing inside my bedroom and I shut its door with my left heel, pulling on the fabric rope which is tied around my stomach to unveil the front of my scantily clad body. I pick up my clothes, neatly folded and awaiting me on my bedspread. I slip them on mechanically over my underwear, listening to the muffled sound of the song that is playing on the radio in my living room.

I am wearing my roller skating jeans, along with a baggy navy sports T-shirt, underneath a loose dark gray jacket. My sports bag is resting at the foot of my bed, all stocked and ready. Among other general items, it fits my helmet, wrist guards, elbow and knee pads, along with a pair of roller skates. All I need is to fill up my water bottle in the kitchen before I leave for the skate park.

I glance at my cellphone, laying on my bedside table. I seize it, tapping the screen twice. A notification box informs me that Cheryl has sent me eight texts.

During the past days, ever since that evening at the Cock-and-Bull, her and I have been exchanging once or twice every day. I have discovered that she, unsurprisingly, is a very experienced and enthusiastic texter. I am not.

The only conversation I am more or less engaged in, that is not mandatory for my career or my living situation, is a group chat I share with Joseph and his husband, Cedric. They affectionately named it "Hurling Buddies 🏳‍🌈 🏳‍🌈 🏳‍🌈", although the members are truly the couple and I, for a grand total of three people, including two that are married and live in the same household. I am not complaining, but the group is... Slightly useless. Quite entertaining, though. They spend a remarkable amount of time every week carefully choosing memes to send me. I cannot lie, that does warm my heart.

Curious, I rapidly access my messaging app to read her messages. 

(Heyyyyyyy 😝)

(What r u doing tonight???????)

(Where r u???????)

(R u busy tonight hon, I wanna see u!!!!!!!)

(I can come over, just send ur location. I'll be right there 😆)

(Nvm all that, do u wanna call me??????? Call me when u get this!!!!!!! 😆)

(Tanzaaaaaaa r u alive??????? 😂🥺)

(Sorry for bugging you ttyl. Just stay safe tonight 😝)

I cannot help but smile. She really loves emojis and punctuation... I quickly devise a reply, telling her I am busy tonight and wishing her a safe evening as well, which is honestly laughable and most likely pointless. At last, I can depart for a carefree evening.

~

My favorite skate park is an indoor installation, which I can reach in approximately 15 minutes of driving, or a little over 20 minutes of roller skating. Today, I roller skated there. It is situated across the street from the gym some of the paramedics I work with sometimes visit for a leisure workout. I rarely join them, because my job and my passion for roller skating combined provide me with enough physical activity to constitute a replacement for good ol' fashioned "working out". Still, despite my already great shape and healthy life habits, I occasionally go to the gym, especially if Colin, Scott or Leah asked me to join them and I am available. I prefer home workouts, though, if I feel the need to strain my body more. And nothing beats a push-up competition in the break room.

I enter the wide, flat, bland-colored brick building, veering toward the announcement corkboard in the lobby. Listening to the squeaky glass doors closing automatically to my right, I scout the handful of posters that are pinned to the board, wondering if there is anything new, as always. There is one, actually, a brightly colored pamphlet advertising late-admissions to Gotham University: "Don't be afraid to pursue HIGHER education!" How tempting.

A laugh catches my attention, coming from the front desk.

"Whoever made it knew what they were doin' with that one, I tell you!"

Ousmane, who works the reception desk full-time, is smiling his usual wide smile at me from behind the rounded fake wood desk. The man is in his mid-thirties, with dark skin and short locs with bleached tips. His parents were born in Senegal, a fact I only know because he mentions his Senegalese descent constantly and even has a small flag of the country propped up on a stick next to his computer.

I approach the counter. "Maybe they didn't. Wouldn't that be worse?"

He laughs good-heartedly at my comments, his laughter is rich and loud.

"That'd be worse, you're right. But not worse than getting convinced by that idiotic poster."

"So, do you need valid ID to sign me in?"

He giggles breathily. "Of course not. Just give me a minute, sirette."

That honorific - if it can be considered one - is a term he coined to address me more or less formally. I may be a decade younger than him, but the attention he put into making it up feels like somewhat of an honor.

"Do you want to pay for next month's subscription?"

"I always pay closer to the date. Maybe next time." I exhale annoyedly, smirking to lessen the tension.

Not that there was much tension.

"We're required to ask every time. Also, I could finally remove this Post-It from my screen." He taps the monitor, which I cannot see, before reading out the presumed note: "Tanza Aguayo, 50% off next month for saving guy."

I would not risk convincing Ousmane otherwise, but I really did not save the aforementioned guy. Two weeks ago, a boy fell off his skate and landed badly. I only checked his vitals and made certain he was not suffering from a concussion, along with lengthily explaining to his friends what signs to watch out for and what to tell the employees at the clinic. And I bandaged his cuts. And crafted him a handmade sling. No big deal.

"I'm still waiting on a paycheck, but otherwise that would've incited me. It's very nice of you, thanks."

"The boss nearly wanted to give you free entry for a year. He's lucky I'm in charge of finances, too."

"Your dad, you mean?" I tease him.

"Very funny, but we are business partners first, family second. Now, get out there! Oh, and I should warn you, there's a few newbies out there, so play nice, eh?" He dismisses me with a wave, laughing.

I holler over my shoulder, walking towards the locker room, "See you later!"

There are not many skateparks, let alone safer indoor ones, in Gotham. 'Rampes n' Roll' just happened to be the closest one to my domicile, and - luckily - close as it is, too. Coincidentally, a handful of months after I met Scott at work, he recommended this place to me. Ousmane and him were roommates for four years, until they respectively found romantic partners and naturally parted ways. They are still friends to this day, but Scott is not a skater of any kind - and neither is his girlfriend - so I am not likely to bump into him here. The scarcity of Gotham skateparks might cause the 'Rampes n' Roll' skatepark to have more clients, but it usually is not very busy when I roller skate there, either in the morning or in the evening, depending on my shifts at the hospital.