Author's note: I've written quite a bit lately, though I haven't shared any of it publicly. This story was written based on a single word prompt ("Solve") and it's quite different than most of the other stories I've written. I hope you enjoy it!
When I woke up several hours later, the house was pitch black except for the illuminated cat clock hanging on the kitchen wall. I stumbled to the refrigerator and pulled out my last beer. Three gulps later, I threw the empty into the recycling bin and headed to the bedroom.
She left the closet doors wide open as well as the drawers to her dresser. Every stitch of clothing, every shoe was gone. It looked as though she never lived there. A framed photograph of the two of us at Coney Island the summer before remained on her nightstand, a painful reminder of another failed attempt at reconciliation. I ruined that, like so many other times we tried to patch up our unhealthy relationship, with excess of drink and neglect. The fact she stayed with me so long was more a testament of her commitment to me than anything on my part. Now she was gone, for good it seemed.
I stripped down to my boxers and got into bed, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, I thought of the years we spent together. I resisted marrying her, telling her that once we made it legal, the romance would be sucked out like marrow through a bone. She did not appreciate either the mental image that conjured up or the sentiment behind it. I thought I was being gallant; she thought I was just being a jerk.
That didn’t stop her from campaigning for some sort of marriage, even if we just ran away to some cheesy wee kirk in Vegas and tied the knot under the steady gaze of semi-sober paid witnesses and Elvis impersonators. Instead, I kept parrying and feinting at every turn. She jabbed, I ducked. She kicked, I blocked. Love is a battlefield, after all. In the end, we remained a pair of world-weary co-habitants, me with the bottle, her with her anguish over me and the “us” she wished we could be. We were doomed.
When the digital clock on my nightstand clicked over to five, I gave up trying to get back to sleep and instead got up, threw on some dirty clothes and headed out into the early morning fog.
If you’ve never lived in San Francisco, you cannot appreciate what weather really is. Here we don’t have weather, we live it. The fog off the bay is like a damp, woolen blanket that embraces and chills you at the same time. The smells of the neighborhood hang musky and inviting, almost like an exotic dancer from some foreign land, redolent in sex and mystery.
I didn’t see her Prius in its usual spot, not that I expected her to be parked there, waiting for me to come get her before she made some terrible decision we’d both regret. Instead, traffic seemed to have receded into to brackish mist, abandoning the street to night dwellers stumbling their way back to their urban caves to sleep off the evening’s excesses, at least for those who had a place to return to. Street people slept where they fell, usually under the cover of a torn piece of greasy cardboard or if they were lucky, a blanket of fresh newsprint.
I headed down Turk Street until I reached Taylor. Lucky for me, my favorite café had just opened their doors and I slid in before a phalanx of wage slaves beat me to the front of the line. A few minutes later, laden with a cup of coffee and a bear claw, I walked back down Turk Street to our apartment, though now it was officially “mine” alone.
Just as I managed to unlock the door without spilling my coffee or dropping my breakfast in the foyer, the phone began ringing inside. I slammed the door closed with my foot and raced to get it before it went to the machine.
“Hello?” I mumbled, my mouth still full of pastry.
For a moment, the line was silent, though I could hear a slight nasal rasp through the received. I waited.
After what seemed like forever, I heard a cough, then a man’s voice. “Is this Jack?” he asked, tenuous, almost shy. I recognized the voice immediately, but decided to play dumb.
“Yes, who’s this?” I asked, then took a swig of hot coffee. I tried to sound casually curious, but in truth, I could feel my heart pumping a mile a minute.
“Um, this is a friend of Sherri’s.” Silence.
“Sherri’s not here,” I said before he could continue. “I don’t know when she’ll be back, either. Are you a co-worker of hers or something?”
Still silent, the guy seemed to be seeking a response among the few at his disposal that would least alarm me. I felt a bit of pity for him, but I also had to admit I enjoyed screwing with his head. Then I thought of something: if he’s calling to find Sherri, then where was she?
“No, I’m just a friend,” he finally said. “I was supposed to meet her for breakfast this morning, but she never showed up.”
Never showed up, I thought. What the hell was going on?
“What time was she supposed to meet you?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Deep down, I actually was surprised to find myself feeling worried.
“Um, an hour ago.” He must’ve known I would’ve thought that was a rather odd hour to be meeting a friend for breakfast, but I didn’t call him on it.
“Well, I wish I could help you,” I said and in truth, I did wish that. “She left before I woke up and she didn’t leave a note.”
The man paused, trying to find out if Sherri confronted me before leaving. Before he had a chance to ask, I added, “Yeah, I was a little drunk last night and fell asleep in front of the TV. She must’ve seen me on the sofa and left without disturbing me.”
“I see,” the man said, sounding somewhat satisfied, but still with a question. “If you could, um, let her know I called, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing. What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Who should I say called for her?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, I guess you’ll need to know. It’s Sam.”
“Sam what?” I probed.
“Um, just ‘Sam,’ She’ll know who I am.”
“Okay then. Thanks for calling, Sam. I’ll give her the message when I see her.”
“Thanks,” he said, hanging up.
I sat down on the sofa to eat the rest of my breakfast and to try to piece things together. Last night, Sherri seemed hellbent on leaving me and running to Sam. Instead, it was almost six-thirty and she’s now MIA. I didn’t know if I should call the cops or the hospitals or what.
After I finished my coffee, I turned on the television and flipped through the news channels. Nothing but the Sunday morning political shows occupied the network stations and cable news had little to offer as far as local happenings. I turned off the TV and went to take a shower. I needed to get out of that place for a while.
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