Page 65 of Invisible Bars

Ms. Shirley took a seat next to me, crossing her legs neatly. Her perfume—light and floral—floated between us, the kind only women over sixty wore and worewell.

“Four years,” she said with a proud nod. “Fourgreatyears.”

I glanced down at my tea, stirring it gently even though she had already added just the right amount of honey.

“Does he… treat y’all good?”

The question slipped out like I was asking about a secret society—one with money, power, rules, locked doors, and a code of silence that punished curiosity.

“Believe it or not, he does,” she replied, her tone calm but sure. “Better than most would. Not to be mistaken, he’s sharp, expects a lot, and doesn’t tolerate mess or laziness. But he payson time—good at that—never looked down on us or disrespected us and never asks for loyalty he doesn’t earn. Mr. Kors just likes things done clean, precise, and on schedule. Which, honestly, should be expected in a position like his.”

Her gaze landed on mine again, more pointed this time.

“Now, he got a darkness to him—everybody knows that. But it doesn’t spill out unless you push him. And even then? He doesn’t raise his voice, baby. He just starts making decisions you can’t come back from.” Then she softened, almost smiling. “But if he lets you in—even just a little—it means something. That man doesn’t waste his energy on people he doesn’t care about. So if you’re here? You matter more than you think. And if you pay attention, you’ll see that he protects what’s his… fiercely.”

I nodded faintly, lips pressed together.

Then she added, her tone dropping just a notch, “But around here, we don’t ask questions… well, not too many; we just do our jobs.”

There was a beat of silence—one that almost settled—until she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering like it was being folded in trust.

“But I’m asking one anyway. Are you here because youwantto be... or ‘cause youhaveto be?”

I stiffened.

“Pudding pop prayer… pee-pee pants—damn it.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Breathed in and tried again.

Ms. Shirley waited with calm, patient eyes for my response.

“No,” I finally answered. “I mean… I’m here because I w-want to be,” I lied, and could feel God tapping me on my shoulder—the kind of tap that came with a side-eye, a hand on the hip, and a whispered, “So you just gon’ lie in my face like that?”Like he was two seconds from sending an angel down with a belt.

My face flinched again.

“Sassy strawberry soap dish!” I blurted, voice sharp and loud enough to make my own ears ring. I pressed my lips together, letting the tic pass before whispering a shaky, “Sorry. Me and Imanio just… had a bad argument. That’s why I wouldn’t eat… or talk,” I said quickly, stringing together the lie like a fragile necklace I was scared would snap. “No one’s hurting me… or forcing me to be here.”

I hated lying; it tasted like rust in my mouth. But some truths weren’t safe in the open. And I wasn’t ready to lay mine out on a stranger’s lap, no matter how kind her eyes were.

Ms. Shirley stared at me for what felt like a full minute—those wise, warm eyes scanning me like she had a truth detector hidden in her chest. Then she nodded and reached out to gently pat the top of my hand with her soft fingers.

“Okay then. That’s all I needed to know.”

Maybe she knew I was lying, or maybe… she just understood that sometimes, survival wears the face of silence.

We sat in silence after that—not awkward, just two women sitting in the same boat, neither asking how deep the water was.

“You... you don’t seem to be weirded out… by my tics,” I said quietly, breaking the silence between us, my eyes still low, fingers tapping the side of my mug.

“That’s because I’m not, baby,” she replied with a soft smile, her voice carrying a warmth that wrapped around me like a shawl. “I used to work at a school as an assistant teacher. I worked with the mentally challenged. One of my babies had Tourette’s. I’ll never forget her name… Kayla. That child used to bark when she got excited.”

Ms. Shirley chuckled to herself, eyes growing distant like she could still hear the little girl.

“Oh, she was the sweetest girl God ever made. Had a laugh that could break through the hardest hearts, and a spirit that could brighten the whole damn hallway. Kids teased her.Teachers doubted her. But not me. I told her mama one day, I said, ‘Your child ain’t cursed; she just got a different beat to her drum.’”

She looked at me with those same wise eyes, full of knowing.

“Taught me a long time ago:difference doesn’t mean broken; it just means you got a rhythm most folks too loud or too scared to hear.”