Unit 927

Unit number 927. It was a 10 X 15 foot space with a clean gray floor and tall ceilings...empty...ready for a new start.

I rushed the forty mile drive back home after work. I got off an hour before my husband and thought it a good opportunity to take care of this business before I expected him in the vicinity.

"How can I help you?", a seasoned but kind-looking woman about five years my senior asked me from behind the counter.

"I'm here to see about a storage space", I said swinging my words as if I had said that a hundred times before.

"What size are you looking for?"

"Umm, well, I've never used a storage unit before", I admitted, "What do they look like?"

...and she went to work explaining the different options available and what each space would hold.

"How long do you think you will need the space?"

"It depends...I'm trying to leave my husband", I confessed.

"Oh. I understand."

She understood...that's what I wanted, someone to understand my urgency and simultaneous secrecy. I wanted someone to understand why I would not answer the persistent ring shouting out of my purse. She understood why I could not use my own home address on the lease and why it was imperative that no correspondence be sent to my home.

She understood when my body language told her I was anxious to complete our transaction. My stolen time was fleeting. She promptly handed me the lock and keys and a map that would lead me to my new space.

Garage door after garage door, endlessly lined up like miniature apartments. Number 927. I inserted the lock and removed the key the way my newfound ally had instructed me.

It's mine now, I thought as I jiggled the lock testing its security. Once again, as when I bought the van, I felt like I had acquired a space of my own...a sanctuary where only I would dwell...a safe haven for my personal belongings. A place that I could populate slowly and inconspicuously.

One more courageous move, but nothing that couldn't be undone...should I decide to proceed differently.