Freeze: A Week With Mr. Hopkins

 P r o l o g u e

 

If the bullet was given eyes to see, it would’ve hit the same couch that she leaped behind.

If the bullet was given a mouth to speak, more than likely it wouldn’t have said anything—not even a wiz, whoosh, or whistle—for it would’ve been in too much shock to comment on her unusual quickness.

And if the bullet was given a pair of wings to help it curve around the couch, it would’ve still missed its target for it carried a great deal of respect for her.

As Anne peeked over the couch, she saw a glimpse of the shooter’s red face drifting into the darkness of the living room.

With her senses enhanced—the smell of gunpowder hovering in the air and the vibrations of tendons tightening throughout her fists—she crouched behind the couch while the shooter reloaded the machine gun.

A streak of light suddenly flashed through the living room and highlighted the shooter’s whereabouts.

She was still waiting behind the chewed up couch when a light flickered across her range of vision. She carefully moved her eyes toward the living room window. There, she noticed a police car cruising by the house. Once more, the cruiser’s spotlight crossed the living room and highlighted the shooter’s face and his weapon.

Next, Anne heard footsteps, this time trailing farther away from her.

Another squeak across the living room!

Then, she steadily glanced over the couch.

The shooter was no longer there.

More footsteps now!

Anne tracked the footsteps, which were now coming from the kitchen. She quickly scurried from the living room before the other intruder could locate her. She sneaked down a narrow hallway and approached him from behind like a predator to a prey. The intruder made it to the kitchen, but the intruder wasn’t alone. Unlike the two intruders, her footsteps were as silent as a ghost.

Holding a knife in one hand, she approached the intruder. Just inches away now…He spun around, only to be greeted by a flying arm. Dodging the blow before Anne could make contact, he fired two shots at her, but she remarkably bent herself around each bullet. Anne made another attack: a swift kick to his arm. The pistol dropped from his sweaty grip, leaving him vulnerable now. He swung at Anne three times, each punch and slap methodically redirected and followed by Anne pouncing onto the countertop and flipping over the intruder. Now, behind the intruder, Anne plunged the knife into his neck before he could strike again. Juvenile noises exited from his throat: a fizzle and then a gurgle. Then, his red face slackened into a gaping expression. His fists uncurled in surrender and fell to his side.

Anne pulled out the blade from his throat, causing a stream of blood to spurt over her face and chest.

Police sirens blared from outside!

The front of her house lit up with bright colors, mainly reds and blues.

As the intruder bled out on the kitchen floor, she couldn’t help but notice a tiny glare right next to his pocket. The glare, Anne saw, begging for attention.

She reached down and carefully patted his pocket. Another object, Anne realized. She pulled out both a silver necklace and a USB flash drive. She examined the necklace first and then the flash drive. However, Anne brought her eyes back to that one necklace. So familiar, she thought—similar—if not, the exact same one that she ordered online a week ago…

 

Part One

Day and Night

 

C h a p t e r 1

M o n d a y,

October 20, 2014

 

Three o’clock in the afternoon: a special time for Anne when all of the morning caffeine from the two rounds of coffee—three if it was a long night—had worn off (this, of course, was what the telemarketers at Universal Satellite Radio called being “tired,” but to Anne, she knew it as the “three o’clock feeling,” which, in the end, turned out not to be much of a feeling at all but more or less a lack of feeling, a state of emptiness and then, finally, one finds himself or herself asking the inevitable question: Why do I keep coming back here, here, at this prison we called USR, trapped, confined, and alone in this nutshell of a cubicle? Surely, it wasn’t because of the money or the hundred and sixty hours of vacation each employee received per year. Then, what was it? Self-torment? The common question: Was I a prisoner of my own design? As many questions followed, as they almost always did, the answers would never come, as they almost never did). But like most employees at USR, including Anne, the only thing keeping their engines running was only one thing: routine. Anne was, as with most at USR, one who lived and died by routine. And that was what she dreaded the most about the job: not only routine, but also the predictability.

Except for Friday and Saturday nights (Sunday being the only day she could really get her beauty sleep), Anne set her alarm to seven-thirty every night after she brushed and flossed her teeth, and then every morning after she climbed from her tedious dreams—driving a car without brakes, going to work naked, an army of cheeseheads invading the office, that sort of thing—she rolled out of bed, literally.

By the time Anne gathered herself, it was around seven forty-five—this was after hammering the snooze button with her fist a couple of times and giving the little pest a run for its money.

At the pace she was going, she was going to break the world record for most broken alarm clocks—she kept breaking them as if it was never going out of style and then she kept forking out the money to buy them. Once, Anne tried the built-in alarm on her smartphone, an Ellipse 4G, customized with the standard bells and whistles: Bluetooth, GPS, Internet. You name it. It had it. But as with the other alarm clocks, Anne ended up breaking the Ellipse, which ended up costing her a pretty penny. So, she decided to stick with the cheapos that ran about fifteen bucks a pop at the nearest Big Mart store. On some mornings, Anne shed about five minutes from picking up the leftover fragments from a shattered alarm clock. Now, she was already going on three alarm clocks this month, one higher than her monthly two.

 

7:46 AM

 

The chirp of an alarm clock, or what was left of an alarm clock, fizzled out into a soft whisper.

On the way down, her feet managed to catch the fall as they always did.

As she staggered around the bed, one of her feet accidentally kicked a battery, which was previously ejected from the clock. The battery skated across the hardwood floor until it came to rest at the doorway.

After one mighty stretch, occasionally wiping the crust from her eyes, Anne inserted each contact into her eyes, the first eye being the hardest and most difficult. A framed painting was mounted to the right of where she was standing. She blinked several times and focused her eyes on the contemplative painting, which she had bought at a thrift shop about a year ago. The painting by local artist, Sue Vanguard, was called Death Row: The Last Walk Before I Die. Every morning after Anne inserted her contacts, she would take a minute of her time to stare at the black and white painting: a long, narrow, and weathered dock stretching out into a foggy lake.

Before she could lose herself in the painting, Anne pulled herself from the vacant stare and shuffled her way through the living room and into the kitchen where she brewed a coffee packet in her single-serving coffee maker, a gift from her foster dad last Hanukkah. Anne stuck with the hardcore stuff, not that weak Dippin’ Donuts bullshit that everybody and his uncle drank every morning. Instead, she bought packets of gourmet coffee, Richer Beans, a robust blend of French roast, tucked away from the big brands in the very back of the aisle. She drank the stuff with no cream or sugar. When asked, she retorted, “I’m already sweet as it is,” which Anne was, but she never really showed that side to anyone except for the people in her circle. She was hard on the outside, soft on the inside. A man’s woman who enjoyed drinking her coffee all the way black. Just a single whiff of the stuff while it was brewing got her bowels moving like a pissed off racehorse.

 

7:50 AM

 

It didn’t take too long for Anne to go.

Not much pushing was involved. She wiped three times and then flushed the toilet without looking down into the toilet bowl.

By the time she slipped back into her clothes, her bottom was clean enough to eat off, but for Anne, there wasn’t much eating going on, or whatever the kids were calling it these days, when it came to that department. Her boyfriend, Michael, an accountant, wasn’t much of a caretaker per se. He didn’t like going down on Anne, which, at times, made Anne question his sexuality. Not to mention: always hanging out with “the guys.” Said that he didn’t like the taste and that it made him gag. He was more of a receiver than a giver, obviously. And Anne, on the contrary, was more of the giver than the receiver; however, she wished Michael pleasured her more often.

Lately, though, there wasn’t much pleasuring going around, nor any giving or receiving for that matter.

 

7:54 AM

 

The comb that Anne used for her hair had been with her ever since she could remember. Her foster mom, Molly, passed down the comb to Anne. It was quite an ugly thing. From a distance, the comb looked like a cross between a porcupine and a dead squirrel that had been flattened by a car. Nonetheless, it got the job done. Anne wasn’t thorough with her hair. She mostly primped. For about a minute or two, she ran the comb through her dirty blonde hair, and then, after she patted down the remaining rogue hairs with a sheet of fabric softener—a little trick a girlfriend taught her a couple of years ago—she wrapped it in a ponytail with a black barrette.

Next, she washed her face with cleansing cream while she worked her way through her first cup of coffee.

For Anne, the whole point was to stay awake. If there was a moment when she closed her eyes, then there was a chance she would fall back asleep, which would’ve been detrimental to her health.

Now was the most crucial part of Anne’s morning routine: sip coffee, keep eyes open, move.

 

7:59 AM

 

Two different outfits that Anne had collected from the closet lay on the edge of the bed. She did the whole eeny, meeny, miny, moe thing. Since USR promoted a relaxed environment, the dress code was very casual; but Anne enjoyed looking good every time she stepped out into the public. Both of her foster parents were nice dressers. Harold always wore khakis with a sweater. Molly something chic. Very old fashioned people.

After about a minute of displaying the outfit in front of the standing mirror, Anne went with the navy blue blouse underneath a black sweater and a pair of black pants. She dressed like she drank her coffee: black.

 

8:15 AM

 

Once Anne was dressed, she applied makeup to her face. She didn’t put on much makeup; in fact, there was no need. Anne was an attractive woman, narrow face and hazel eyes, innocent and yet fierce at the same time. She wasn’t too liberal on the makeup, whereas a lot of women around the office used about as much makeup as a mortician. Anne was subtle, though, a little bit of dark shadow around both of her eyes, a dash of powder on her sunken cheeks to cover up the dim freckles, a generous amount of mascara, and then, to top it off, glossy pink lipstick.

Anne checked the time on her phone.

The time read: 8:22.

“I’m going to be late,” she whispered to herself.

 

8:23 AM

 

On the way out, Anne grabbed a ripe banana, as well as a lite snack from the pantry, usually a granola bar or cereal bar, which was low in carbs, low in fat, not a lot of sugar, and then poured the rest of the coffee in a silver thermos from the row of cleaned dishes that she did the night before. She did one final check around the kitchen and made sure everything was turned off, including the coffee maker, and then exited the house.

 

8:30 AM

 

Anne was out the door. She locked the door behind her and grabbed the morning newspaper from the welcome mat. USR was about ten minutes away, but morning traffic always doubled the ride. It took about three minutes to get her used 2000 Honda Civic warmed up. The car had about 87, 000 miles on it, and was a pothole away from blowing its transmission. Other than that, like her mom’s comb, it got the job done.

While the car was warming up, she picked out a CD for the road. Most of the music Anne listened to was sung by a dude with jet black hair combed over one side of his gaunt face, black eyeliner, bitter as hell, witchy voice—the genre of music was what the little headbangers called “screamo,” which was apparently a subgenre of emo.

 

8:34 AM

 

The traffic was starting to get congested near Wiltshire Avenue where Anne waited in the turn lane to Seventh Street. Most of the cars behind Anne changed lanes and skipped in front of the line, while Anne, as always, waited there patiently. She didn’t hit the heavy traffic until she reached Seventh Street, which ran into College Street, which took her directly to USR. On the way, she saw the same traffic everyday, same people, same faces, same cars, each one headed to a company or an office or, like Anne, a cubicle. Most of the faces she saw carried the same expressions, long and tired.

 

8:53 AM

 

After cutting in and around traffic and nearly getting sideswiped as she made a sharp right into the USR employee parking lot, Anne parked in her favorite spot underneath the maple tree, which had already started to change from green to a mixture of orange, red, and yellow. She did one last primp before exiting the car. Lastly, she reached into her purse, pulled out a medicine bottle, and downed her prescription drug Paxil with the rest of the coffee from the thermos. It took a few minutes for the Paxil to work its magic—usually by the time she entered the office. In the reflection of the driver’s side window, Anne did yet another last minute adjustment, this time rearranging the gray scarf around her neck.

With only five minutes left (technically, the clock-in device gave an employee seven minutes of leeway, before and after the scheduled time), Anne rode the elevator to the fifth floor, USR, one of the many companies in America whose jobs were outsourced to India. Most of the employees had been laid off and left to suffer in the feeble economy and then, later, replaced by machines, the Siri-type fuckers; however, after President Shaw’s reelection in 2012, the jobs were brought back to the humans of America (but this, of course, was after President Shaw failed to create and sustain new energy jobs, as he had campaigned during his reelection).

Anne stepped from the elevator and greeted the receptionist, Mary, on her way into the office.

At the clock-in device, she punched in her nine digit social security number two minutes before her scheduled time, 9:00, and then did her daily bump-in with her friend, Jamie Vasquez, who shared a double-wide cubicle with another employee, a couple of feet away from the break room. By the time she made eye contact with Jamie, the nerves leftover from the morning routine were washed away like a footprint in the sand after a high tide. Her friend, Jamie, was seven years older, thin body, healthy-looking face, short curly hair with orange highlights. Her fashion tastes were not too far off from Anne’s—only Jamie wore more jewelry. Bracelets were her thing. Each day, she wore a different bracelet, maybe gold, silver, tiger’s eye, or beaded, to match whatever outfit she was wearing that day.

“Hey there, stranger,” Anne said as she stuck her head inside the cubicle.

Jamie turned away from the computer and noticed Anne standing over her shoulder.

“Hey, girl,” Jamie said, her voice drawn out with excitement.

Anne asked, “Did you get that picture I sent you last night?”

“I was meaning to ask you, but I ended up passing out early,” Jamie said. “Where did you get that dress? That was like some Bazaar type getup! Seriously!”

A hint of red painted over Anne’s cheeks.

“Stop it,” she said.

“I’m serious,” Jamie said cheerfully. “Girl, if you sent that picture to every single man in Lansford, then you would have men throwing themselves at you. One by one, they would be dropping to their knees, asking for your hand in marriage.”

Anne chortled.

“Serious,” Jamie said. “So, where did you get that thing?”

“I bought it from Milanos last week,” Anne said. “It’s been so cold out. I haven’t had a chance to wear it.”

“What about Michael?”

“What about him?”

“Well, has he seen it yet?”

“Yeah,” Anne said closer now, “but get this. He said I look like I’m going to a funeral.”

“Get outta here!” Jamie blurted out. “No he didn’t!”

“Can you believe that?”

“Well, that man has no sense of style,” Jamie said, her voice trailing off. “I mean, you would think he would.” She raised her eyebrows. “You know.”

“Don’t go there, Jamie.”

“I’m just saying,” Jamie returned. “I think you can do much better.” She shrugged her shoulders. “For what it’s worth, I thought you looked great.”

“Thanks,” Anne said, again, her cheeks turning red. “So, we still on for lunch?”

“I’m a little backed up right now,” Jamie said. “But I’ll let you know.”

“Text me.”

“You bet,” Jamie said, smiling.

On the way to her cubicle, which was at the other end of the office, Anne said her friendly “good morning(s)” to the employees who acknowledged her, mainly women, one of them being Susanne Marshall Culpepper, or soon-to-be Susanne Marshall, a voluptuous woman who, like Anne, had struggled with a severe weight problem, only hers being from having two children. As for the men who worked at USR, there were a couple of them who acknowledged Anne and not just her ass. There was Lester, also known as “What-A-Mess-Less,” who complained how much he hated his job and how, for years, he had been telling folks around the office, including Anne, that he was going to move to Montana and become a park ranger. Then, not too far off: Stephen Bagger, who preferred to go by Stevie, a name he picked up after his favorite pop singer, Stevie Wonder. The employees had a better name for Stephen: Mr. Monotone, named after his flat, turtle-speed voice, as well as the trite conversations he would try to jump-start in the break room. Like What-A-Mess-Less, Mr. Monotone was always giving his two cents about the job. And like most, if not all employees around at USR, they either talked about how much they hated the job or hid their heads behind their cubicles like a bunch of moles, except for Tom Swearinger, also known as the “King of Sales,” or better yet, the “Office Prick,” the douche bag who bragged about the many sales he made, which, he did. He had quite the silver tongue on the phone. See, Anne figured out after a year into the job, a term like brown-nosing didn’t exactly mean a thing in the corporate world; and Tom, well, he took full advantage. Had the track record to prove it. He was the guy many employees, mainly men, loved to hate, not only because he was the King of Sales and held the most sales within the department, but also most of the employees, especially the women, couldn’t resist his charm and handsome looks. Anne wasn’t a fan. Tom was well aware of how much Anne despised him; and as a result, every time Tom bumped into Anne, Tom would be super-duper nice to her. For most employees, each selling style was different. Jamie was a go-getter who customers either enjoyed or despised: enjoyed, because she was extremely personable and easy to talk to; or despised, because she didn’t take no for an answer, which, consequently, led to an earful from the customer and then a swift click on the other end. Stan, on the other hand, Anne’s neighbor, was very passive and made most of his sales from older customers. Tom, however, was a master manipulator who would tell customers exactly what they wanted to hear and even lie to them to make a sale.

Anne passed Tom, who was wearing that same ole shit-eating grin on his face, as well as that same ole red tie around his neck.

If only murder was legal…

“Good morning, Annie,” Tom said in an overly friendly manner.

“Morning,” Anne said and kept walking.

Tom said to himself but loud enough for Anne to hear, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Anne ignored Tom and mentally told herself to keep walking.

And that she did.

One foot in front of the next.

 

9:05 AM

 

“Let me guess,” a delicate Southern voice said from Anne’s right side. “Bad case of the Mondays, Anne?”

Stan, Anne’s colleague in the neighboring cubicle, slowly rose from the chair as Anne settled into her cubicle.

Inside, she had various knickknacks around the desk: a Teddy bear holding a cup of pens and pencils, a giant smiley face button that said, “Have a nice day,” a couple of Happy Meal toys all stationed in tactical positions, a black and white poster of Gene Kelly from the film, Singin’ in the Rain, and a couple of clippings from the comic, Dilbert, tacked on the walls of her cubicle.

Stan, short and wide like a tree stump, who wore Buddy Holly glasses and a short-sleeve shirt with a blue tie everyday, waited for Anne to respond.

Instead, she jokingly rolled her eyes.

Stan said softly, “You know I’m just teasing you, Anne.”

“I know you are, Stan,” she said with a sigh. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” he said with a smile on his round face.

“You’re looking quite merry today, more so than your usual self.”

Anne glanced around the office. She found herself looking toward the break room. Her eyes came across Jamie, who was standing from her cubicle and looking toward Anne’s direction. They both shared a smile and then Jamie sank back into her cubicle.

“Well,” Stan drawled, displaying the dimples on each side of his face, “I had a fantastic weekend!”

Anne pulled her eyes from Jamie.

“You did?”

Stan bobbed his head while Anne placed her coat on the hanger on the cubicle wall.

“Melissa and I spent Friday night and all day Saturday at Mayberry Valley and then came back Sunday morning,” Stan said and leaned forward. “I tell you what. I am ex-ha-usted.”

“You and Melissa, huh?” Anne said strangely as she placed the newspaper on the desk. “You’ve been seeing her for how long now?”

“About nineteen days.”

“Wow,” Anne said quietly. “Isn’t it a little too soon to be going to Mayberry Valley after nine days?”

“Nineteen days, Anne,” Stan corrected, emphasizing the teen in nineteen.

“Whatever.”

“Well, we both like each other, both enjoy each other’s company,” he said. “I think, well, I don’t want to rush into anything too fast because I know that only fools rush in,” Stan placed his hand over his mouth and said behind his hand, “get it…”

Anne got the joke, but she didn’t show an inkling of amusement on her face.

“And I’m no fool…anyway, I know it’s way too soon but I think she could be…you know…”

“Let me guess, Stan,” Anne said bluntly. “She let you fuck her. Right?”

“Potty mouth!”

“Am I right?”

“Well…”

Stan chuckled.

“Don’t be shy, Stan.”

“I’m not,” he said in a high pitch voice. “I just think it’s a private matter. I am a gentleman. And gentleman don’t kiss and tell.”

Stan tried to conceal his smile, but the smile eventually broke through his face.

“I hate to say it, Stan, but nothing’s private anymore.”

“Well…”

“I’m happy for you, Stan,” Anne said as she carefully cleared her throat. “I wish I had a guy like you, Stan, a guy who treats me nice, takes me to romantic places. Forget about jewelry and all that. I just want some attention.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“What can I say?” Anne said as she leaned over the cubicle. “I envy you, Stan.”

“So, how’s it going with you and Michael?”

“Going straight to hell,” Anne said flatly. “That’s where it’s going.”

“Anne, you know what?” Stan said. “I say the heck with him.” Then, he noticed the supervisor, Dave Fuller, six foot five inches tall, body shaped like Big Bird, roaming the aisles with a clipboard in his hand. Stan hunkered back into his cubicle and whispered to Anne, “Looks like the wolf is out on the hunt.” Anne drew her eyes across the office and carefully eyed Dave, his slouched body moving as if it was attached to an assembly line.

Before Stan slipped back into his cubicle, he said to Anne, “Have a good day…”

“Yeah,” Anne said in a trance-like state and then sat down in her chair. “You too.”

After a minute went by, she pulled out her phone and texted, “So how was Melissa?”

Stan received a text message from Anne.

SweetStan: What u mean?

Anne received the reply from SweetStan (Stan) and then texted back.

 

DirtyTill30: Was she good in bed?

DirtyTill30: Doggystyle? Missionary? Reverse Cowgirl?

SweetStan: LOL! Ur crazy girl!!!

DirtyTill30: I want details

SweetStan: Sorry, Anne. Ur gonna hav 2 use that imagination of urs

DirtyTill30: You’re no fun 🙁

SweetStan: Maybe at lunch.

DirtyTill30: ???

SweetStan: MAYBE I’LL TELL U AT LUNCH!!

DirtyTill30: Hahahahahahaaa, TELL ME NOW!

SweetStan: Nuff CAPS

DirtyTill30: LOL

SweetStan: Wolf Alert!

 

Anne removed the phone from her face, stood up from the chair, and cautiously poked her head out of the cubicle like a jittery mouse poking its head from a hole.

Her supervisor, Dave, was making his way down their aisle—closer now.

Anne quickly sank back into her cubicle and texted Stan.

 

DirtyTill30: Fine. We’ll talk later…

SweetStan: K

 

As Dave slowly made his way past Anne’s cubicle, she placed the phone back in her purse. She checked the calendar, week of October 20^th through 26^th, and checked out what the week had in store for her. There wasn’t much of anything going on: Monday, cardio @ 5:30, Necklace!!! The End Zone @ 9; Tuesday, Pick Up Dry Cleaners @ 1:00, workout, Doctor’s Apt. @ 3:45, Blood Diaries @ 10; Wednesday, morning cardio, Dinner w/ M @ 7:30; Thursday, Talk w/ HR, Mandatory Meeting @ 4:00, Workout (arms and shoulders) Pizza Night! Wicked @ 10; Friday, cardio; Saturday, groceries, make list, new vacuum; Sunday, Lazy Day.

For about a minute, she piddled around the cubicle, doing minimal tasks such as reading her zodiac sign, Aquarius, from the daily horoscopes, as she did every morning (today, her sign read, Be on the lookout! You have a secret admirer, which was immediately followed with her mumbling the words yeah right), or organizing the pens and pencils or tidying up the little knickknacks around the desk before she logged into her computer. To the right of ID, she typed her name, Anne Roth. Underneath ID, and to the right of the word Password, she typed Alcatraz123, therefore bringing forth the one unavoidable question later in the day during her moment of reflection, that special place in time, three o’clock.

Next, she pulled up the list of customers (most, of course, being customers who discontinued their services).

After Anne was all situated, she made the calls. The first call was to a recent divorcee named Ms. Susan Corset, a mother of two, USR customer for about two years until she had to cut expenses, including cable, landline, and magazine subscriptions to name a few, in order to provide for her two children. So, she decided to cut USR services and go back to listening to her old CD’s, as well as the local AM/FM radio.

When Ms. Corset answered the phone call, Anne started with “Hello, may I speak to Ms. Corset?”

“Speaking…”

“My name is Anne Roth, and I’m calling from Universal Satellite Radio,” Anne said. “How are you doing today, Ms. Corset?”

“Fine,” Ms. Corset said sharply.

“Wonderful,” Anne said, almost robotically. “I promise this will only take a second. The reason I’m calling you today is that we’ve noticed that you canceled your subscription to Universal Satellite Radio and, at this time, we would like to offer you a special six month package for only twenty-four dollars and ninety-five cents—”

As the customers always did, they usually interrupted Anne whenever money was brought into the conversation.

Anne listened closely.

She heard Ms. Corset breathing heavily on the phone.

Then, a sudden burst…

“What…what do you want from me?” Ms. Corset shouted.

Of all the responses Anne had heard in her two years of working at USR, she had never heard that question before. Usually, she got the typical “Not interested” or “Call back another time” or “I can’t talk right now,” but a response like “What do you want from me” sounded like, to Anne, that this woman, Ms. Corset, was at the end of her rope and even when she tried to escape the world, the world wouldn’t let her.

“We, at USR,” Anne stuttered, “have enjoyed your business, Ms. Corset, and would like to have you back as a customer—”

“Why?” Ms. Corset cried.

Anne could hear the tension in Ms. Corset’s voice.

“Well,” she said carefully, “we’re running a special deal that you can’t get anywhere else. Now, we have over a thousand channels to choose from, including Newstalk—”

“You know,” Ms. Corset interrupted, “this is the fourth time this month you people have called me. I tell you time and time again that I’m not interested and yet you keep calling me. Do you people enjoy doing this for a living, harassing people because that’s what you’re doing? This is harassment and if you call back here one more time, I swear to God I will call the police…”

“I apologize, Ms. Corset.”

“You apologize?” Ms. Corset chuckled. “Now, you apologize? What is your name?”

Anne hesitated.

“Anne,” she said, her voice slightly trembling.

“Anne,” Ms. Corset said mockingly. “Anne what?”

“Anne Roth.”

Ms. Corset laughed again, but this time at the name, Anne Roth, and said under her voice, “Typical.” Her voice suddenly spiked like an amplifier. “How about this Anne Roth?” Ms. Corset quickly followed, exaggerating the Roth in Anne Roth. “I’m not buying whatever you’re selling, Anne Roth. So please, why don’t you do me, as well as everybody else a favor, and just leave us alone? Is that too hard to ask? Huh? Anne Roth?”

A sharp click on her headset!

Anne disconnected.

She sighed and removed the headset from her head.

“That didn’t go so well,” she said to herself.

It wasn’t unusual for Anne to get about halfway through the pitch before she was interrupted. Like Ms. Corset, a lot of the customers were fed up with the numerous calls; however, most of them didn’t go as far as Ms. Corset and attack the actual telemarketer. Anne didn’t mind the bluntness; in fact, she enjoyed talking to people throughout the day despite how rude or curt they were to her. The one thing that Anne hated the most about the job was the hang-ups. Sometimes she would be almost done with the pitch when she would hear the click on the other end. Other times she went through the whole pitch and then there was nothing but silence on the other end as if she was talking to a ghost. From the dozen calls she had made so far, most of them being hang-ups, she made one potential sell, which was to an older man named Daryl Finney, a retiree who talked to Anne for about twenty minutes on the phone. Half of the conversation wasn’t even about USR or whatever Anne was selling. Mr. Finney did most of the talking; however, whenever Anne spoke, Mr. Finney would follow up with more questions, more stories. He mainly talked about his three kids and then his kids’ kids, his grandchildren—seven of them, Anne only remembered two of their names, Bradley and then Tanya. Bradley was into playing games on the eTab, whereas Tanya was more into playing dress up with her sisters. Anne didn’t mind talking about family affairs with Mr. Finney. She enjoyed getting away from the standard pitch even if it was only for a short while. This was the only highlight of her day—that moment where she felt as if she belonged.

 

9:48 AM

 

After eight calls into her day, Anne decided it was time for her to stretch her legs and walk a lap around the office.

The mission at USR was to provide a safe and stress-free working environment, a so-called “greener” company, which was its way of saying that they wanted to promote a healthy way of life for USR employees, despite the frequent celebratory gatherings around the office, and recommend that each employee take a break every thirty to forty-five minutes to stretch his or her legs. USR provided a couple of designated rooms, one called the Workout Room, which had several treadmills and elliptical machines, always there and ready for the employees’ disposal, and another room with soundproof walls called the Vent Room, which received most of the attention throughout the day. There was even a weight chart in the break room for those who were counting calories on a daily basis. The employees who participated in the weekly Wednesday Weigh-In received a free five-dollar gift card to Smoothie Paradise. And the winner who ended up losing the most weight at the end of the ninety-day contest received a one-year membership to the popular water park, Slide-Or-Dive. Even though USR promoted these greener options for its employees, the company practically celebrated everything from birthdays to whatever was considered a holiday, which was pretty much anything. There was even a day called Boss Appreciation Day. So, what better comfort food to enjoy on celebrations than cake? About two months ago, the people upstairs decided to add healthier options such as gluten-free snacks and low fat cookies, which, to Anne, tasted like tree bark; but, if Anne had the guts, she would tell the people upstairs where they could stick their gluten-free snacks and low fat cookies.

 

10:37 AM

 

Anne was wrapping up a call with a recent graduate, Kyle, who was extremely interested in USR but couldn’t afford the service due to loans and a tight budget, when a stabbing pain in her eyes forced her to disconnect with the potential customer. She removed her headset and hurried to the ladies restroom where she splashed her face with cold water. While doing so, one of her contacts came out. She quickly shut off the water and plugged the sink before the contact fell into the drain. She ran her finger across the sink until she came across a round object. She picked up the object and held it close to her good eye, the right one. She squinted her left eye and focused with the right. The contact wasn’t flimsy as before; instead, it was hard like glass. Anne placed the contact between her fingers, index and thumb, which caused the contact to break in half. The sudden break pricked her thumb, drawing a drop of blood. Nearly blinded, she went to the break room and grabbed a Band-Aid from the first aid kit and placed it over her thumb. She managed to find her way back to her cubicle with one eye. Then, she used a pair of backup glasses that she kept in her desk drawer. She removed the other contact in her eye and used the glasses for the rest of the day.

 

12:03 PM

 

After Anne finished her final call before lunch, her phone suddenly chirped inside her purse!

She pulled out her phone and read the text, “In the mood for Indian food?” She pressed her thumb against the fingerprint icon on the screen and then opened the TextYou app from the menu.

 

DirtyTill30: You trying to get me in trouble??? You know I’m watching my weight.

Jamie: How about El Rio’s? They have salads. Yum!

DirtyTill30: Too filling. I can go for sum Freak right about now. Met Café?

DirtyTill30: Greek*

Jamie: Sure. That sounds great. You ready now?!?

DirtyTill30: Give me a sec

Jamie: Okay J

 

Anne removed the headset and stretched, sneaking a peak inside the neighboring cubicle.

Stan’s head was held down into his smartphone.

“Intrude much,” he said, not making any eye contact with Anne.

“Whatever,” Anne said. “Be like that then.”

“I’m texting Melissa.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” she said. “Do you guys ever, you know, like talk on the phone.”

“Talk on the phone?” Stan replied with a grin. “Who does that anymore?” He finished writing his last text and did so with a smile on his face. “So, did you hear the news?”

“I think someone’s in love.”

“Don’t go there,” Stan waved his hand and placed the phone into his pocket. He noticed Anne’s glasses. “Whoa! Nice look, poser.”

“Very funny.”

“So, did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“They’re bringing in a cake this afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “It’s going to be chocolate. Your favorite…”

“Whose birthday?”

“Bob Fleming from HR.”

“Jesus,” Anne said abruptly. “That’s like the fourth one this month.”

“I think the Almighty is testing your patience.”

“Tell me about it.”

Stan asked, “So, what are you doing for lunch?”

“Jamie and I are gonna grab something across the street.” Anne nodded at Stan. “Wanna join? Oh!” Anne said suddenly. “That’s right!” Her eyes crossed a flattened brown bag on Stan’s desk and then a half-eaten wedge from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich next to it. “I forgot your PB&J.”

“Man’s greatest creation.”

“Well,” Anne said and gathered her things, including her scarf, coat, and purse, “have a nice lunch.”

“You too,” Stan said and took a bite from the wedge.

 

12:29 PM

 

Both Anne and Jamie managed to find a booth in the back of the restaurant, Met Café, away from the line, which was now wrapped around the building. They snacked from a basket of pita bread and hummus and, after Jamie ordered the chicken gyro, they talked about the rules of being a vegetarian (Jamie, who called herself a vegetarian, not a strict vegan, which Anne retorted by calling Jamie a “hypocrite,” argued that chicken wasn’t really considered meat in her native country) for about five minutes until their meals finally arrived. The waitress arrived at the table with a smile on one side of her face. She placed both the Greek salad and then the chicken gyro with a side of lemon fries on the table. They thanked the waitress, who, in return, told the two to enjoy their meals.

“Keep that away from me,” Anne said, pointing at the chicken gyro.

Jamie spread the tzatziki sauce over the gyro and then held out the gyro in front of Anne.

“Just one bite…” she said, “…it’s borderline orgasmic.”

“I wouldn’t go that far now, Jamie,” Anne said, her voice drawn out. “It looks like a sandwich made from road kill.”

“Trust me,” Jamie said closely. “This is much much better than road kill.”

“I’m telling you, Jamie,” Anne replied and held out her hand. “I’m on maintenance right now. I can’t have over twelve hundred calories a day. You know this.”

“Oh come on,” Jamie persisted. “What’s one bite going to do?”

“I’m telling you,” Anne said louder. “I can’t!”

“Fine,” Jamie trailed off as she unfolded the aluminum foil and stuffed the end of the gyro into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back into her head.

“You okay over there?”

Jamie quickly followed with one side of her mouth full, “You’re missing out.”

“No, thank you.” Anne poured the vinaigrette dressing over her salad. “I’m just fine here with my salad. Besides, I don’t see how you eat that kind of stuff and never put on a single pound. Not unless you throw it all back up.”

“Ugh!” Jamie slapped the side of the table. “Don’t talk like that when I’m eating.”

Anne laughed.

“Sorry.”

“You know I have a high metabolism.”

“Well, you’re lucky,” Anne said. “Some people would kill to have your metabolism. Seriously.”

Jamie finished the rest of the bite.

“So, how much longer do you have on ‘maintenance’?”

“Well, it’s been five weeks now,” she answered. “So, one more week and then I’m all good to go.”

“You’ve come so far, Anne,” Jamie said sympathetically as she tilted her head to the side. “I mean it. You really have. Me, I couldn’t do what you do everyday, stick a needle into your stomach. That’s pretty intense.”

“It’s only for the first forty-two days.”

“Still,” Jamie chuckled, “I couldn’t even do that for a day.”

“Wuss,” Anne said and took a bite of salad.

“Call me what you like, Anne, but I have a low tolerance for pain,” Jamie said. “I know you’re doing it for all the right reasons, but I just don’t understand why some people enjoy the pain.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, but it hurts. Right?”

Anne shrugged.

“A little,” she said. “But you get used to it.”

“I don’t see how.”

“It’s not like I get off from it,” Anne said, “like some people do with BDSM.”

“BDSM?”

“Like that bondage stuff.”

“Yikes!” Jamie exclaimed as she checked a message from her phone. “How can someone get off on pain?”

“You’d be surprised nowadays.”

“To me, it makes no sense whatsoever,” Jamie said with her head down. “Weird times.”

Anne said quietly, “Tell me about it.”

“It’s starting to feel like the Twilight Zone, and our whole fabric of society is rewiring itself.”

Anne couldn’t help but look at what Jamie was doing.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah,” Jamie continued with her head down.

“Are you talking to me or the phone?”

Jamie pulled her eyes from the phone.

“I’m talking to you,” she said, chuckling. “Duh!”

“Who are you texting?”

“Geez,” she said. “I’m just checking my email, Anne.”

“You know I don’t like that kind of stuff when I’m eating.”

“Why?”

“For one, it’s rude.”

“Okay, Ms. Moral Authority,” Jamie said. “So, talking about puking is acceptable?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Anyway,” a sigh, “I got an email from Rebecca. She’s interested in buying that one piece.”

“Which one?”

“The one I showed you the other day,” Jamie said, “the one with the man and the child.”

“That’s a nice piece,” Anne said. “Congrats.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “It’s gonna be hard giving it away, though. It’s become like my own baby.”

“I don’t see how you don’t get rabies from working with all that rusted metal,” Anne said. “I would be afraid to even touch it.”

“Hence why I wear gloves,” Jamie replied, as she took another bite of the gyro. “I did get cut once, though. Had to get a tetanus shot. Definitely do not want to go through that whole ordeal ever again. What a nightmare!”

“You know,” Anne said and sipped from the glass of water, “I heard that’s how Edgar Allan Poe went out.”

“From rabies?”

“Yeah,” Anne said. “They found him in an alleyway.”

“I doubt he was making sculptures with old junkyard parts, but I guess it comes with the territory,” Jamie said. “Me, I love it. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.”

“I need to find a hobby like that,” Anne said quietly, “something that I’m passionate about. Lately, all I’ve been good at is drinking an entire bottle of wine by myself. Perhaps I could be one of those guinea pigs who sits on the couch every night with a bottle of wine and watches television for hours at a time until I pass out.”

“I didn’t know they had such a thing.” Jamie’s eyes lit up. “We should go to a movie! We haven’t done that in a long time!”

“There’s nothing really out,” Anne said. “Same ole crap.”

“So, what about you and Michael?”

“What about us?”

Anne took another bite of her salad and tried to ignore the question.

Jamie sighed.

“It’s these shots you’re taking? Isn’t it?”

“No,” Anne said. “That’s not it.”

“Then what, Anne?” Jamie leaned forward. “I like hanging out with you, even if it’s just going out to lunch. We’re friends. Right?”

Anne didn’t respond.

“I know sometimes you want to be alone. I understand that.”

Anne said, “I’m not alone.”

Jamie smacked her gums.

“Please, Anne,” she said. “Every time I go on MyCircle, you’re online. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Whoever said there was?”

“I’m just saying, Anne.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s nothing wrong with going on MyCircle,” Jamie said and pointed at herself. “I do it too.”

“Then, why are you judging me?”

“No,” Jamie said, reaching over the table. “I’m not judging you. If there’s anybody who should be judged, it’s me. Trust me.” Jamie pushed aside the plate. “What do you really want, Anne?”

“I don’t know…”

“Of course, you do,” Jamie said. “There’s no shame in admitting it, Anne.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice shaking. “I want a man who tells me I’m beautiful, not some narcissistic asshole who cares more about his job or the way he looks than his own…girlfriend. Is it wrong for me to want a man who will tell me those things?”

“Absolutely not,” Jamie said as she placed her hand over Anne’s hand. “You are beautiful, Anne?”

Anne replied with her head down, “I can’t even get a nibble on FindYourRomeo to save my life.”

“Why do you still mess around with that site?”

“I don’t know.” Anne shrugged. “Probably because I can’t find a decent man during the day. For example, like in the grocery store or at the gym, I hardly get guys to approach me. And I see so many hot guys in the store. Do they approach me? No. They’re too busy staring at their phones. But at bars, though, it’s different. It’s like I can’t brush them off quick enough.”

“It’s because they’ve already had one or two drinks,” Jamie said. “That’s why. You know, liquid courage. By then, all they want is sex. Nothing serious. It’s like after these men drink they got nothing to lose. Most men don’t have the cojones to approach women anymore. Sober, I mean.”

“I know I’m not going to find a decent man at a bar.”

“Then, why even try?” Jamie said bitterly. “Why exactly are you still with Michael? Shouldn’t you find someone—I don’t know—more like you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not saying that because he’s black or whatever, but shouldn’t you be with someone who you actually enjoy being with or someone who you at least share a common interest with?”

“He takes me shopping and stuff.”

“Anne, really,” Jamie said sharply. “You two just don’t seem like a really good fit. I mean, if you’re always on the lookout for another man—which I know you are—then that tells me right there your heart is not into Michael. I mean, I would end it the first chance I get and be with someone who shares the same interests. You would save a lot of time, not only for yourself, but for him as well. Then, you could focus on finding a better match for yourself.”

“You’re right,” Anne said quietly.

“What’s preventing you from being like,” her voice went from her normal voice to a rough impersonation of Anne’s, “Hey, I’m sorry, dude. But this thing here, I’m sorry but it’s not working out between us. I think it’s best for the both of us if we go our separates w-a-y-s.”

“You mean ways?”

Jamie rolled her eyes.

“You know what I mean.” She leaned in closer to Anne. “If I were you, Anne, I wouldn’t get so caught-up with the whole online dating thing.” She sat back in her seat. “I tried it once. Talk about a real nightmare! It was almost like playing Russian roulette. There are some real creepos that go on there.”

“But still,” Anne said, “that wasn’t FindYourRomeo.”

“The way I look at, Anne,” Jamie said. “It’s all the same, really.”

“I’ve seen some really cute guys on there.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said shortly. “And most of those pictures either, one, were stolen, or two, were taken like ten years ago when they had a head full of hair and not a sandbag for a belly.” She dropped her head in thought. Her eyes flicked up at Anne. “The first time we met…do you remember?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You were having trouble with the vending machine.”

“And you came over like it was no big deal and gave the vending machine a smack to the side,” she said. “My Dark Bar dropped to the bottom like it was nothing.”

“Thanks,” Anne said despairingly.

“I’m teasing,” Jamie returned. “After that, we instantly became friends. And look at you now. You’re literally half the woman you were when I met you.”

“You know I always wasn’t like that.”

“Hey,” Jamie said, “it’s hard to believe but I used to be pretty big myself.”

“You?” Anne returned. “Get out of here!”

“People made fun of me for my weight,” Jamie followed. “Then, when high school came along…I don’t know…” Jamie shrugged, “…I stretched out like a piece of gum. Now, look at me. I got the body of a high school boy.”

Anne laughed a little.

Jamie said, “You were, and still are, that same gorgeous woman not just on the outside, Anne, but on the inside. However—”

“—I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” Anne interrupted, “but I’ve been feeling this way for some time now.”

“It’s about Michael,” Jamie said. “Isn’t it?” A sudden pause and then a faint gasp spilled from her lips. “Think about this, Anne. He didn’t even talk to you when you were, you know, ‘bigger.’ The guy even forgot about your birthday. Come on!”

“His brother was in town that day.”

Jamie rolled her eyes.

“The thing is, Anne,” she said abruptly, “you’re not that woman anymore and yet, at times, you still carry around her same self esteem. It’s just sometimes you sell yourself too short. That’s all.”

“I know,” Anne said and pushed around the romaine lettuce in her salad. “Maybe I still think he can change.” Anne naturally shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, I did. So, why can’t he?”

“Anne,” Jamie paused once more in thought, “I just think now you should stop caring about what other people think about you and just accept you for who you are. When you get to that point, then that skin you’re in, Anne, it will be like a force field against all the haters out there.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Jamie said, “This is just my opinion. I think you deserve so much better. All Michael cares about is Michael.”

“Yeah,” Anne said. “I know. It’s just…” Anne paused, “…I feel like my clock is ticking right now, and if I don’t find someone soon, then there might be a chance I will never have a family.”

“I thought you didn’t want to have children, Ms. DirtyTill30.”

Anne shook her head.

“I don’t,” Anne hesitated, “I mean, maybe I do one day. I don’t know.”

“With Michael?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said. “He’s already told me that he doesn’t want kids.”

“But Anne,” Jamie said, “you got at least six years until you run into all sorts of problems.”

“I can’t imagine myself being thirty years old and single. I don’t see how you do it.”

“I enjoy my independence,” Jamie said and sipped from her drink. “I will never get back those three years I spent with Trevor. He really screwed me up in the head when he came back from Iraq. He was a liar, manipulator, had no feelings at all. He wasn’t the man I fell in love with. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same, the way he treated me, all the mind games, it was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. After Trevor, I will never be able to trust anybody ever again.”

Anne said, “Least you once had somebody. Me, I’ve had nobody. I’ve been alone my entire life…”

“Have you ever thought that maybe some people are just meant to be alone?” Jamie said quietly. “Or, maybe, they just choose to be alone.”

They finished the rest of the their lunch, mostly in silence.

 

1:16 PM

 

Anne was exiting the break room when Jamie suddenly said from behind, “Thanks for lunch.”

She turned her shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Jamie said and found herself struggling whether or not she wanted to continue the conversation or depart with Anne. “Anyway,” she said finally, “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Anne said and smiled. “See ya.” She nodded to her cubicle. “Now, it’s back to the penitentiary.”

Jamie chuckled.

“Say,” she said. “We should catch a flick at my house sometime. We haven’t done that in a while. Maybe one day later in the week.”

“Yeah,” Anne replied. “I would like that.”

“Okay,” Jamie said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Anne said, “Later.”

She walked back to her cubicle where Stan was on the phone, talking to a potential customer. He noticed Anne in the corner of his eye. He gave her a quick nod as she entered her cubicle. She placed her things around the cubicle and got back to work. She made more calls from the list of customers. She experienced more rejections, more hang-ups, and more irritated responses. The customers—Anne knew from having worked here for several years—were less bold in the afternoon for a couple of reasons: one, they were too busy to talk or in the middle of doing something; and two, they were—for most part—well beyond the early morning blues.

 

1:42 PM

 

Anne excused herself from the cubicle and went to the ladies restroom where she relieved herself.

While washing her hands in the sink, she received a text from Michael.

 

Michael: Hey you

DirtyTill30: Hey! How’s it going?

Michael: Good. Just taking break, thinking about you

DirtyTill30: That’s sweet 😉

Michael: Gtg. Talk to you later

DirtyTill30: Sure

DirtyTill30: I wish this day was over already…

 

No response.

 

2:13 PM

 

For the longest time, Anne got used to staring at that weight chart every afternoon. Then, the weight came off. And then, she stopped staring. However, every once and a while, she would find herself looking in the vicinity of the weight chart. The chart, nonetheless, was a simple reminder of how far she had come.

 

2:59 PM

 

The minute passed before she could even prepare herself for the feeling, or better yet, the lack of feeling to come. Then, once Anne removed the headset from her head, she pulled her eyes from the screen and found herself staring at the clock across the office, which brought her to here everyday, to three o’clock, a specific place in time where time didn’t exist at all. The caffeine, which propelled her through the job as if both her mind and body ran on autopilot, was tapered down to a dull tingle. The job, which had occupied most, if not all of her time, was three-fourths finished. Then, that strange feeling came over her, the emptiness, heavier now. Her limbs were first to go dead and then the joints, now as stiff as a pecker in the morning, and then, finally, her eyes, now as heavy as Droopy. For most around the office, it was an easy fix: a trip to the bathroom (James from two cubicles down carried a Playboy disguised underneath the Living Section of the Lansford Tribune to the men’s restroom everyday where he would rub one off until his knuckles turned white. And if he didn’t have a Playboy handy that day—James had a tendency to pass around the mags like trading cards around the office and usually, if he got them back in one piece, the pages were all stuck together—he resorted to a failsafe: his smartphone, which had over a dozen pornographic videos, mostly POVs), a mental vacation (one time Anne caught Dave, her supervisor, the wolf, flipping through photos of an exotic paradise on his tablet), or a visit to the vending machine (Deborah Borough, or “Debby,” as most called her, another telemarketer like Anne, grabbed a bag of fried pork skins everyday to fill the void inside her stomach). But Anne knew all too well that these people weren’t just searching for a quick release from reality, an “instant gratification,” or even filling their stomachs with food. They were trying to fill a void inside them, literally, not that hunger. Throughout the entire workday, Anne felt like a puppet being strung around through the calls, through the office, bodies like holograms passing her by; but when Anne found herself at the grip of three o’clock, the strings were gone. She stopped what she was doing, took a look around the office, and realized how miserable her life was. At three o’clock, Anne became an observer, the wandering eyes of the office, gathering various habits, mannerisms, ticks, and escapes, analyzing them in her own thoughts. She was good at reading other people, their mannerisms and habits. The only thing she wasn’t good at was reading her own self. Even when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t know who was looking back at her.

Then, once three o’clock passed, and that same feeling, or lack of, was left lingering around, Anne searched, like many, for a release from the daily grind. She found that release here on www.MyCircle.com, a website, which, like many other social networking websites such as FriendCloud or eContacts, allowed friends to follow or share or post all sorts of info about themselves, photographs—mostly selfies—comments (trolls not allowed after the recent Anti-Bullying Act, which was passed last February), personal feelings, thoughts, or inspirational quotes from their favorite authors, philosophers, musicians (Anne currently had eighty-nine followers in her circle, seven of them Anne had known from the workplace, including Jamie, whereas the other eighty-two followers she had never met), and here, on www.FindYourRomeo.com, a dating website for single women searching for a man, or Romeo. Like other social networking websites, FindYourRomeo used “nibbles,” which was the same thing as “follows” or “winks,” only nibbles left it up to the person who was being nibbled at to nibble back, which, if he/she did, the nibblee was interested in getting to know the nibbler, which, inevitably, led to a date. As for Michael, he was unaware of Anne’s FindYourRomeo account, and Anne planned on keeping it that way. If Michael ever found out about her account (which most likely he wouldn’t for two reasons: one, he wasn’t in the market for a single man; and two, he wasn’t the type who stalked his girlfriend on the Internet or kept tabs on what she was posting or writing), Anne always had the “it’s an old-account” excuse.

 

3:34 PM

 

The office was chattering in clicks, sharp and dainty, and ranging in pitch like a boundless swarm of locusts in a fertile pasture, the swarm migrating from cubicle to machine, machine to cubicle, hundreds and thousands of human fingertips tapping along the hollow, block-shaped keys as each and every letter formed into a word, the words formed into a sentence, hundreds of voices strong, eyes staring drunkenly into the hazy electronic white landscape of computer screens glowing faintly from the viscera of every cubicle. The pale light shined on the dead faces of dazed telemarketers, hypnotized and paralyzed, from staring blindly into the screens all day. Their glassy eyes were bloated and fatigued. Ten fingers stronger and faster and harder out of the thousands tucked behind those concealed cubicles, Anne finished her second sale of the day, Darren Blunt, a retiree who canceled his USR services three years ago, and now, after Anne’s long pitch, decided to rekindle his business with USR. The rough and callused tips of Anne’s fingers were like diminutive doorways, and every single time in a variable rhythm or beat, she pressed them against the letters on the keyboard, and just like that, a sale was born.

“Piece of cake,” she said with relief.

The harsh ambience around the office dimmed a little, and then Anne heard the sound of a massive exodus moving closer to the break room. She poked her head from the cubicle, only to find the staff gathering around the break room.

Stan rose from his cubicle and glanced at Anne.

“You know I can’t, Stan,” Anne said depressingly as she filled in the rest of Mr. Blunt’s information. “Just the smell of it would send me over the edge.”

“I’ll make sure to bring you back a piece,” Stan said and winked at Anne.

“You better not.”

Stan grinned.

“I’m joking.”

“You better be.”

Stan pushed his chair back into the desk and joined the other employees in the break room.

While Anne sat in her cubicle, she overheard her colleagues singing the song, “Happy Birthday,” to Bob Fleming, a father of two, who, after the applause, blew out all thirty-nine candles on the birthday cake.

There was another applause, Anne heard.

As the applause faded out, Anne’s cheeks suddenly turned fiery red. Sweat beads formed over her forehead and other regions of her body. To the right of the computer was a small portable fan. She switched it on and then reached around her desk and pulled out a photograph from the bottom drawer. The photograph was taken three years ago at Anne’s college graduation. Harold and Molly were standing on each side of her. The woman who was dressed in the purple graduation gown and standing between Harold and Molly didn’t look a thing like Anne; in fact, the woman was nothing more than a stranger to Anne. From a distance, Anne could hear the vulgar names being yelled out from a crowd of jocks and cheerleaders as if she was standing outside a cave and the fellow students were screaming at her from inside the dark hollows. Nicknames like “Cow,” followed by moos or “Here Comes The Walrus, “ followed by goo goo goo joob or “Miss Piggy,” followed by snorts and high pitch voices—all punch lines: “Where’s your boyfriend Kermit?” or even worse, that one name, “Fat Ass,” all could be heard inside the recesses of her mind, and then that smile, his smile, the creature’s smile, as sharp and pointy as a trowel, a hideous thing that always went unforgotten, always bending and stretching across the murkiest corners of her mind, revealed itself inside the dark hollow. She remembered hearing those two words, Fat Ass, all throughout the tail end of high school, mainly her junior and senior year, and then running to the bathroom where she hid inside a stall and cried for hours at a time. Those six or seven years, even the first year at USR, were extremely rough for Anne; and if she didn’t do anything about it and shed the weight, then the insults would’ve eventually gotten the best of her. But they didn’t. Anne decided enough was enough! It was time for a change. The tipping point was on the day the elevator broke and she had to climb five flights of stairs. When she reached her floor, the fifth floor, she could hardly catch her breath. To top it all off: witnessing a pink turd in the women’s restroom after Jane Fisher’s birthday. The thing was floating there and gaping at Anne as if it had eyes and mouth, that mouth saying, “Flush me! You’re pathetic!” After that day, Anne stopped flocking to the frequent office gatherings like the ones Stan went to, placed her name on the weight chart, and played along. The goal for the first week was to lose five pounds, which, to Anne, didn’t seem like much. She first started by running a mile a day, but as much as she would burn off during the day, she would equally gain back at night. So, she stopped eating at night. “Portion control” was what the trainer told Anne. However, after three weeks of eating healthy, three square meals a day, yummy salads, no bread, lean meats, fruits, and vegetables, Anne still wasn’t seeing the results that she wanted. So, she tried the whole diet thing. There was the Atkins diet, the South Beach diet, the so-called “LA diet,” which Anne would not recommend, Jenny Craig, and then Weightwatchers. Anne lost the weight, especially after the LA diet; but, a week later, Anne was hospitalized after an overdose of cocaine. Altogether, she lost about fifty pounds, which put her right at two hundred and twenty-four pounds. Still, it wasn’t enough. Then, a friend told her about HCG, short for Human Chorionic Gonadotropin. The diet was fairly complex, legal, of course; however, when Anne went to her doctor with the idea of trying HCG, he told her that she would have to endure many shots. Otherwise, if she could withstand being poked everyday with a needle, then she would see great results and it would be well worth her time. “Guaranteed fifteen pounds,” was what he told her. For the first forty-two days, Anne thought she would become a raging horny bitch (after all, the doctor was injecting hormones into her stomach), but, on the contrary, she didn’t feel that way at all. Strangely, the shots made Anne feel slightly… euphoric. During those first forty-two days, she had to maintain her diet to five hundred calories a day, no more, no less, and then after the first forty-two days, she was on this thing called “maintenance,” for six weeks, which, during that time, Anne had to maintain her diet to no more than twelve hundred calories a day. Then, for the first six months, including the first forty-two days of hormonal shots, Anne received two shots once a week—one shot was a fat buster and then the next was a B12 shot, which were both taken in the hip. After the first round of HCG, Anne lost about thirty-five pounds. However, Anne wanted to lose more. So, she did another round just like before, but, instead of six weeks of maintenance, it was eight weeks, and then, depending on the results, if she continued a third round, which more than likely she wouldn’t, then it would be ten weeks of maintenance. After the second round, Anne lost a whopping forty-four pounds. She was greatly satisfied with the results and decided to lose another ten more, which would put her around the same weight when she was a sophomore in high school, around one hundred and thirty-five pounds, but, of course, she would have to do it on her own and not with HCG. During the diet, she thought men would approach her more, as she shed the weight. For Anne, that wasn’t the case at all. There were a few one-night stands while she was on the HCG diet: one of the guys, whom she met at a club, having a shy turtle head for a dick, and the other one, a banker, decent size, talked a lot of game and yet, while in bed with Anne, he was about as erratic as a buoy in a turbulent ocean—no rhythm whatsoever, and then another, a string bean, acted as if he was having seizures during sex, and like the guy before him, lacking any rhythm whatsoever. Of all the awkward hook-ups, there was only one guy who paid her the most attention, her boyfriend, Michael, who was introduced to her through Shane, a coworker from Advertising, during a night out for drinks. However, as with the diets and the weight loss, the attention Anne received from Michael wasn’t enough.

 

4:38 PM

 

For the past ten minutes, Anne couldn’t keep her eyes off the clock. She made a few more calls before the hour hand finally struck five and then called it a day. She made sure to log out from the computer.

In the cubicle next to her, Stan was packing up his things.

“Thank God this day is finally over,” he groaned, moving the strap to his bag over his shoulder.

Anne returned, “That bad?”

“Melissa and I just got into a fight on the phone.”

“What happened?”

“I asked her if she wanted to come over tonight and she got all mad.”

“Really?” she said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, she worked a double last night and she said she was dead tired.”

“So, she got mad at you because you wanted to see her?”

“Here,” Stan pulled up the conversation from the phone, “read for yourself.”

He handed Anne the phone.

Anne read the text out loud, “Why don’t u cum over? Sounds like u need a release.” Anne handed the phone back to Stan. “Sorry, buddy,” she said. “That sounds like a booty call.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stan said angrily.

“Then, what exactly did you mean by ‘release’?” Anne asked. “Also the way you spelled come. You’re kind of sending a mixed message.”

“I meant like watch a movie or do something fun,” Stan explained. “Release can mean anything—a release from the job, a release from reality…”

“I get it, Stan,” Anne said. “Booty call or not. You wanted to spend time with her. Right?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, maybe she wants some space.”

“She could’ve just told me that instead of using what I said and turning it against me…”

“Just give her some time,” Anne said. “And don’t text her. Call her. Let her hear your voice. You can really tell how she feels by the sound of her voice.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m a woman, Stan,” Anne said. “That’s how.”

Stan hung his head.

“Stan,” Anne said, “if it’s not meant to be then it’s not meant to be. Things like this either bring couples closer or pull them apart.”

“I can’t think about this right now,” Stan said and paced around the cubicle. “I have to get out of here.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stan stuttered, “I just…I need to go…”

Stan exited the cubicle.

“See you tomorrow,” Anne said as Stan walked away, not even saying goodbye to Anne.

 

5:06 PM

 

On the way out of the break room, Anne stopped at Jamie’s cubicle. Inside, Jamie still had her headset on. Jamie, rolling her eyes, held her hand as if it was a gun, placed her index finger into her mouth, and pulled the hammer, which, in this case, was her thumb. Anne laughed to herself and then motioned to Jamie: her hand shaped like a phone and pressed against her ear, mouthing the words call me.

 

5:25 PM

 

“Gym rat,” were the words Anne used whenever any discussion of exercise was brought up in a conversation. She didn’t mind calling herself a gym rat. Molly hated the name; in fact, she couldn’t stand the name. After about a year into her daily regimen, gym rat became a nickname for Anne. The weightlifters, even runners, would refer to Anne as gym rat to fellow members—you know, that awfully cute shy girl who used to be as wide as a tractor trailer, comes in here all the freaking time and works out by herself, you know, gym rat.

About three times a week (four if she didn’t have much going on Saturday afternoon), Anne drove to the neighborhood gym, Fitness City—a membership cost thirty-two dollars a month with a free guest once a week. Since Anne didn’t live in an apartment complex or an organized community with a fitness center, she didn’t mind forking out the money every month. In addition, the gym offered a whole range of equipment, as well as its own personal trainers, which was all included in a monthly package. Most of the trainers, unfortunately for Anne, were homosexuals. Nice guys. But totally gay. That went for most of the guys who had a membership. However, she didn’t mind. She had a decent gaydar as well. It was the gladiator-type guys spending hours staring in the mirror at the muscles on their finely sculpted bodies while lifting weights who really threw Anne for a loop. In the two years Anne had been coming to Fitness City, she had only been approached by three men, two of them were gay, and the other one was her math teacher from her senior year, Mr. Lawrence, and he was going through what he called a “midlife crisis.”

Anne finished her protein shake in the parking lot before heading into the gym. She said hello to a couple of frequent members, changed from her work attire in the locker room, and did a quick five-minute stretch before hitting the dumbbells first and then the machines. Anne’s workout consisted of mostly arms, shoulders, chest, and abs, basically her entire upper body.

 

6:40 PM

 

As she always did after an intense workout, Anne waited in the hallway, mostly surfing the Internet or checking emails on her phone, until the showers were completely empty before entering the locker room.

 

6:43 PM

 

There was only one girl a few years older than Anne in the locker room, and she was applying deodorant to each one of her armpits.

Anne waited until she left before undressing. She brought three things with her to the shower: a bottle of body wash, a bottle of shampoo, and the second towel from a stack of fresh towels. She switched the water to warm and washed herself underneath the last shower faucet tucked away in the very back of the locker room.

While washing the shampoo from her head, she suddenly heard the squeak of the locker room door!

Anne pulled her attention toward the opposite end of the locker room, toward the row of navy blue lockers, and peered through the clouds of steam.

Next, she heard yet another squeak, sharper now like two hinges grating against one another. Her heart began to race. She switched off the warm water, shielded one hand over her groin while she grabbed the towel from the hanger with the other hand, and then wrapped it around her torso. She saw, or at least she thought she saw two shadows dancing across the distant wall. Anne wasn’t wearing her contact lenses (the only pair Anne had were discarded at USR) or her glasses, which were resting on top of a porcelain soap holder; and yet, she saw those two shadows on the wall as clearly as the letter E on a Snellen chart. Anne carefully honed in, all senses enhanced. A single drop of water cast from a faucet pulled her wide eyes toward the set of mirrors across the locker room. Her reflection was distorted, she noticed. The steam from the showers had fogged up all mirrors expect for one. Her body was much thinner, ghastly, the skin scaly. Anne reached around to the wall and blindly grabbed the glasses from the holder and placed them on her face. She heard the piercing sound of rattle. The right side of the frame cracked and then the mirror, in which her reflection stood, suddenly split in half, causing Anne to slip over the wet tile. She landed on the left side of her body, which made a loud smack against the tile. During the impact, her left wrist caught most of the fall. Even moving it an inch sent a stabbing pain up her entire arm.

 

6:57 PM

 

With her gym bag in one hand, her good one—the pair of broken glasses inside the pocket—Anne, who was dressed in her previous work clothes, squinted her way to Gregory, a trainer who was closing up a session. Gregory’s eyes shot to Anne’s wrist, which was held still and upright.

“Oh my god!” Gregory blurted out. “What happened, Anne?”

“I fell,” Anne muttered.

“Come,” Gregory said and walked Anne into his office.

 

7:04 PM

 

Despite having a body shaped like Hercules, pecks like two granite rocks, no neck, and forearms as big as Anne’s thighs, Gregory had extremely gentle hands—no Lennie and the rabbits here. He finished wrapping Anne’s wrist with his massive paws and did so tenderly as if he was picking petals from a flower. When it was all said and done, Anne was left with a sense of great bliss. It was just too bad Gregory was gay and that he had a partner whom he was madly in love with. Once, Anne thought about bringing Gregory over to her side of the team, but in Gregory’s defense, as he explained to Anne, he was too emotionally involved with another person who turned out to be another man. Anne never brought up the matter while the trainer was wrapping her wrist. Instead, she smiled respectfully and thanked him for his assistance.

Before she left, Gregory specifically told Anne to ice the wrist with a bag of ice or anything cold she could find in the refrigerator such as a bag of frozen peas for about twenty minutes (and make sure she kept on the wrap while doing so), and then keep the wrist elevated for the rest of the night until the swelling went down.

 

7:28 PM

 

As Anne pulled out of Fitness City’s parking lot, a car followed behind her.

She didn’t think anything of it, of the car, at least not yet.

 

7:37 PM

 

Two headlights suddenly appeared in the rear view mirror. The car was too dark to make out from the darkness of night and the lack of streetlights—a sedan, she guessed—although, she did recognize the headlights, the left headlight slightly dimmed as if it was about to burn out while the other one, the right one, was bright and blinding—same as before.

Anne made a right onto her street and then the mysterious car behind her took a right as well.

With her eyes squinted, Anne checked the rear view mirror once more.

The strange car was still there, although it was keeping its distance from Anne, which made her even more suspicious.

A block away from her house, the car eased back.

She finally arrived at her house.

As Anne pulled into the driveway, the strange car slowed down in front of her house, nearly stopped next to the mailbox, and then drove away into the night.

 

7:47 PM

 

Since Anne couldn’t see much without her contacts and wasn’t in the mood to pick up any food, she decided to throw a TV dinner into the microwave—one of those low fat cordon bleus with a side of green beans, which had been sitting in the freezer for about six months.

While the dinner was cooking, she dressed in more appropriate attire: a long white tee that stretched halfway down her thighs. She fished out an old pair of reading glasses from the nightstand. They were ugly things, very how-would-she-say, “old fashioned,” but they did the trick. Anne went back into the kitchen where she watched the timer on the microwave count down until it finally reached zero.

For Anne, most nights during the weekday consisted of takeout food (there was a local Chinese place, family-owned, not too far from her house called The Golden Panda, which Anne frequented at least twice a week; and every time Anne called, they knew exactly who it was on the phone and what she wanted to eat—kung pao chicken, gleaming with MSG, and a side of edamames). Normally, she ate about half of the dinner and saved the rest for leftovers the next day. Again, it was all about portion control—especially at night. It was the sweets that really got Anne into trouble. As for her source of entertainment, if her favorite shows weren’t playing that night (tonight was The End Zone, a popular sci-fi drama, at nine o’clock, along with a glass of red wine and one Percocet, and her wrist iced with a bag of frozen peas that she dug out from the bottom of the freezer and then elevated as Gregory had instructed her), then most nights consisted of Korean horror flicks, as well as martial art flicks (Old Boy—the original one that is—being one of her favorites), maybe an occasional romantic flick—usually a box of tissues handy, depending how depressing her day was—dates with Ambien, and if she was out of Ambien, she resorted to hard alcohol, mainly rum or vodka, the flavored kind, pineapple or mango, anything she could get her hands on around the house. Nonetheless, she didn’t have much of a problem sleeping, more or less passing out. She got about seven solid hours of sleep every night, all, of course, done with some sort of aid, either it be pills or booze. Most nights were spent passed out on the couch; however, if she didn’t drink or take a pill to help her sleep or exercise that day, then she usually spent the night tossing and turning in her bed or watching late night television until she finally dozed off. Tonight, Anne didn’t have too much of a problem sleeping.

 

10:03 PM

 

The phone chirped on the coffee table!

Startled, Anne bolted upright from the couch and checked the message on the phone.

It was a text message from Michael.

 

Michael: Where u at???

 

Anne rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.

“No booty call for you,” she said to herself as she silenced the phone.

She fell back into that same comfortable position on the couch, rested both feet on the edge of the coffee table, and elevated her wrist on a stack of pillows.

At her final peak of comfort, she wrestled through the cushions and checked her phone once more.

“Fuck it,” she groaned.

There was no message; however, she picked up the phone and got through four words, do you want to, before she turned off the phone and settled back onto the couch where she eventually fell asleep.

 

10:23 PM

 

Two men, both as dark as night, quietly sat inside the black car parked outside Anne’s house.

The man in the passenger seat, thin face, high cheekbones, eyes like marbles in the faint moonlight, glanced down at the flip phone, which suddenly lit up. He flipped open the phone and answered before the phone had a chance to vibrate, “Everything is going according to plan, sir.”

A resonant voice on the other end: “The package will arrive tomorrow.”

“What do we do until then?” he asked.

“Wait until further instruction.”

“Yes, sir.”

The other end of the phone went dead silent.

“Sir,” the man in the passenger seat said, finally realizing the call had ended after he glanced down at the screen of the phone, which was flashing 00:00:12.

“He’s not much of a talker,” the man in the driver’s seat said. “Is he?”

The other man didn’t answer; instead, he pulled his eyes toward Anne’s house and watched carefully for any sign of movement.
C h a p t e r 2

Tuessay,

October 21, 2014

 

The last two images before Anne climbed from her dreams were of a strange pale girl screaming to the top of her lungs and then a round brilliant light bearing down on her. That girl was Anne, but Anne knew nothing of this until the brilliant light filled her eyes. She was ten years old, give or take. There she was, Anne saw behind her eyelids, the young girl standing on the side of a desolate road in the middle of the night with two bright headlights of a truck bearing down on her. The girl’s hair was wet and stringy, her body malnourished, eyes strung out, and both of her stick-like arms were erected outward in front of her puny body; and the girl was screaming, violently. A loud screech of tires coming from behind the light pierced through her ears like an air horn with bronchitis; and there, at the moment, Anne found herself in the body of the young girl, the very same one she watched from a safe distance standing on the side of the road. Her arms were erected outward in similar fashion, voice cut with terror. Then, that brilliant light filled her eyes!

Anne opened her heavy eyes, only to find another woman, much older, quite burly, screaming as she waddled toward the camera. Anne flinched and came to and, after a couple of seconds, realized that the burly woman wasn’t waddling toward Anne but to another woman who had apparently called her a “bitter, flabby-lipped skank” off screen. Anne grabbed the remote, which was wedged between two cushions, and turned down the volume from the late night reality TV show, Reality Check.

Still in a daze, Anne checked the time on the cable box.

The time read: 4:23.

She turned off the television, picked up the damp bag of peas, which was completely thawed out now, from the armrest of the couch, carried it back to the kitchen, and tossed it into the freezer.

Next, she stumbled her way into the bathroom where she did all the things that she normally would’ve done before she went to bed at around ten forty-five, except for flossing her teeth or weighing herself on the scale or washing the makeup from her face. All she really accomplished was brushing her teeth and even that was a task all by itself, as she did so in a drunken state.

After Anne brushed her teeth, she sipped from the faucet, rinsed her mouth, and squinted her way to the doorway where she made three attempts at cutting off the lights.

Once the lights were out and the bedroom was left cold and dark like the inside of a tomb, Anne staggered over to the window and peeked through the blinds. There, she saw a car parked outside, possibly the same one as before with the dim headlight. Inside, there were two men, she witnessed, both as shifty as wall shadows. She closed the blinds and slipped underneath the bed sheets and swaddled her body with a comforter. She didn’t think too much about the car parked outside or the two men sitting inside—at least not long enough for it to occupy her mind. Anne was too tired to think, too tired to worry. So, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

 

8:23 AM

 

The sunrays cut across Anne’s eyelids.

The distant dreams, which faded into the recesses of her mind, washed over with a glowing orange and then red color as she awakened.

The warmness of the sun was familiar, a feeling she would often experience on a Saturday morning, not a weekday.

Anne briskly opened her eyes and rose from the cool pillow with a sudden sense of urgency.

Startled, she turned her shoulder and checked the alarm clock on the nightstand.

Her face lit up.

“Shit!” she blurted out.

She grabbed a backup pair of glasses from the nightstand and put them on.

For about a minute, she wandered through the bedroom: first, to the closet where she grabbed the first thing that she set her eyes on, a black sweater; secondly, to the dresser where she grabbed a pair of skinny jeans; and lastly, from the top drawer, a pair of wool socks.

She undressed from her sleeping clothes and then redressed into her working clothes.

She ignored the faint pain in her wrist and darted into the bathroom where she rushed through her daily morning routine: wash the face, do the hair, which she wasn’t so diligent about—Anne just threw it in a ponytail—gargle mouthwash, and apply deodorant.

When she was all clean and ready to go to work, it was already a quarter till nine.

Anne ended up skipping the meticulous steps of the morning ritual, which had kept her balanced day in and day out, including breakfast along with coffee—those sorts of things she could grab at work—as well as doing her makeup—that, she could do in the car while sitting in traffic—and jetted out the door.

 

8:46 AM

 

As Anne inserted the car key into the lock, her eyes crossed her shoes, which were two different colors. One was brown, and the other was black.

“Damn it,” Anne said to herself.

She turned on the car, warmed up the engine, switched on the heat to the medium setting—warming both the inside of the car, as well as defrosting the windshield—and then rushed back into the house where she couldn’t help but check the time on the microwave.

“Shit,” she hissed. “I don’t have time…”

Instead of changing her shoes, she rushed back to the car.

 

8:49 AM

 

Anne was back in the car with the same two different colored shoes she started out with. Half of the windshield was now defrosted while the other half was still covered in frost. She turned on the wipers a couple of times, which, eventually, cleared away the remaining frost on the windshield.

Right before she drove off, she glanced down at the dashboard. The red bar was hovering just above the E. If things couldn’t get any worse…

“Damn it,” Anne whispered as she slammed the gear in R and reversed from the driveway.

Halfway down the driveway, Anne realized that she never picked up the mail from yesterday. She parked the car, made sure the brake was all the way up from the slight incline of the driveway, and hurried to the mailbox.

Anne checked the mailbox, but there was no mail inside, which, to Anne, was unusual. There wasn’t a holiday yesterday, at least not to her knowledge; however, on the other hand, she wondered, the way holidays, appreciation days, or whatever days popped up every year, she wasn’t the least surprised if the mail didn’t come because it offended somebody else or interfered with another person’s beliefs.

She hurried back to her car. She switched the gear to reverse; and then, the second she pressed her shoe against the gas pedal, a potent waft of funk came over her like a fart in a crowded city bus. Yet again, she switched the gear in P and sniffed the inside of the car, the vents, the steering wheel, and then her hands, her crotch, and lastly…her armpits. The horrendous smell came from none of those places, even her armpits. Then, it hit her like a punch to the face. She peeled her brown shoe from the brake and lifted up her ankle, only to find a lump of dog shit on the sole of her shoe, a fresh turd as round as a smashed nugget.

“Shit,” Anne seethed intensely, as she pointed out the obvious, that she stepped in a piece of dog shit in the front lawn (which could’ve come from any of her neighbors, since most of the neighbors had dogs and walked their dogs on the sidewalk, most of the time without their little shit baggies). At this point Anne’s outrage was burning like hellfire.

 

8:55 AM

 

While Anne was applying the lipstick across her upper lip, a car horn suddenly blared out from behind!

She pulled her eyes from the overhead mirror and without knowing it, smeared the lipstick across one side of her entire cheek. Then, the traffic began to part. The car behind her cut into the next lane, raced around Anne, and then cut back into her lane. Anne proceeded forward; however, the traffic slowed once more, which now left Anne behind the same car that had pulled out in front of her.

Then, the traffic moved again, yet Anne remained at a standstill. The man who was in the car in front of her was looking down into his lap. A couple of car horns blared from behind Anne. The man in front of her pulled his head from his lap, raised a phone, and held it against his ear. Once the man realized that he was responsible for holding up traffic, he proceeded forward, but not as aggressively as before.

 

8:58 AM

 

Without a minute to spare, she made a pit stop at the nearest gas station, Pearl Gas, where she filled the tank with regular. She only put ten dollars in the tank (enough to make it to work and then back home).

As Anne grabbed the receipt from the pump, she heard a sudden splat near her feet and then an ice cube struck the side of her ankle. A stocky man, who was dressed in khaki shorts, red baseball cap, and strolling away from Anne, had missed the trashcan nearest her pump by at least four feet. Not even a brick or a bank shot. Still, the man continued at his leisurely pace—a steady penguin toddle—and didn’t bother picking up his trash.

Anne’s eyes crossed the ice cube, the little bit of soda left behind on her pants.

With her teeth now clenched and the upper part of her cheeks filled with a shade of carmine red, Anne glanced below at the plastic 48 oz. cup, as well as the scattered ice cubes, inches away from her back right tire. She directed her narrow eyes toward the litterbug, who didn’t even acknowledge what he had done, and yet, he kept strolling back to his car as if he was a man strolling through a park.

Anne reached down, picked up the cup from the ground, tossed the trash into its rightful place, ripped the receipt from the pump, stormed back to the car, and slammed the door behind her.

 

9:03 AM

 

After Anne parked, she did a once over in the reflection of the driver side window and saw the lipstick on the side of her cheek.

“You gotta be kidding me,” she said, as she leaned toward the driver’s side mirror, licked her fingers, and wiped away the lipstick from her cheek.

Lastly, Anne checked her shoes, first in the reflection of the car and then, secondly, side to side with a long gaze. Doesn’t look that bad, she thought as she tried to extend her gaze from another perspective, from vertical to horizontal, which, physically, seemed impossible to pull off. When does a person look at another person’s shoes?

Either way, it was going to be that kind of day.

Anne just hoped the worst was behind her.

 

9:06 AM

 

With one minute to spare, Anne arrived at USR.

She rushed through the cube farm and into the break room where she clocked in with a couple of seconds to go.

As her hand swept across her forehead, Anne said to herself, “Buzzer beater.”

Once Anne clocked in, she grabbed something to eat from the vending machine—one of those healthy bars that tasted like cardboard—and then fixed a cup of coffee in the break room. She passed Jamie on the way to her cubicle. She said good morning to Jamie, but Jamie was already on the phone with a customer. In return, Jamie nodded at Anne, mouthed the word hey, glanced down at the time on her phone, and then rubbed the top of her index finger with her other index finger, a gesture of “shame on you,” only done in a joking way.

“I know,” Anne repeated and hurried through the office.

In the neighboring cubicle, Stan, like Jamie and the rest of the employees, was on the telephone with a customer.

Anne arrived at her cubicle.

As she placed her purse on the desk, her phone chirped twice!

She checked the two messages from Stan.

 

SweetStan: Good morning, Sunshine

SweetStan: Ur late.

DirtyTill30: Forgot to set alarm *___*

SweetStan: Don’t worry. I covered for u. Told Dave u were having a lil car troubles.

DirtyTill30: Awww…That’s nice of you. Thanks, Stan 🙂

SweetStan: Np.

 

9:18 AM

 

Before Anne made her first call of the day, she received another text on the phone.

She rolled her eyes, and hoped it wasn’t Stan again.

It wasn’t.

The sight of the name on the text caught her by surprise.

 

Michael: Are you ignoring me???

DirtyTill30: What is that supposed to mean?

Michael: I texted you last night

DirtyTill30: Sorry. I got it just now. Went to bed super early last night. So exhausted. Plus my alarm never went off this morning so I was in straight panic mode all morning 🙁

 

Anne waited for Michael to text her back, and did so for about ten minutes (spending most of time surfing the Internet, skimming through the recent headlines on her homepage, checking her email, logging onto FindYourRomeo where she had 0 nibbles) until she finally decided to get to work.

 

9:57 AM

 

Not too long after the second cup of coffee was finished, Anne could feel the morning turd making a last-second escape. She stopped what she was doing and went to the bathroom to relieve herself.

Once Anne was relieved, she removed the glasses from her face and massaged her wrist for about a minute. Then, after the massage, she washed up, her hands first and then her face. The touch of cool water against her sore eyes felt pleasing.

As she pulled her hands from her cheeks, a coarse material brushed along her fingertips. She quickly put on her glasses and looked down at her hand. In her fingers was a piece of what looked like skin. The sliver was no larger than a fingernail, however, soft and squishy from the water. Anne looked in the mirror and examined her face, her cheeks. She didn’t have any marks or discoloration, not even a single cut or bruise on her face.

Anne dried her hands and then her face and went back to her cubicle where she made more telephone calls.

 

11:45 AM

 

A head manifested in the corner of Anne’s eye.

She turned her shoulder and spotted Stan’s upper body dangling over the cubicle.

“How’s it going, Anne?” he asked.

With a sigh, she said, “It’s going…”

Stan studied Anne’s face, the paleness of her skin, and the dark circles around both of her eyes.

He asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She rotated her weary eyes at Stan and then turned away.

“It’s my eyes,” Anne mumbled and grimaced as she removed the glasses from her face. “They’ve been killing me.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m going this afternoon.”

“Does Dave know?”

“Not yet,” Anne said as she rubbed the corners of her eyes, “but it’s the only time I can go. So,” Anne paused, “if Dave has a problem, then Dave can kiss my ass.”

“Anne…” Stan said quietly.

Anne moved her eyes toward Stan and looked at him directly in the eyes.

“Yeah.”

Stan suddenly paused!

His face went slack and expressionless.

“Stan?”

Anne tilted her head in confusion.

Again, Stan remained still and expressionless.

“Did I say something?”

With a sudden gasp, Stan jerked his head back and forth.

Anne asked, “What was that about?”

Stan said confusedly, “What was what about?”

“You looked like your cheese slipped from your cracker.”

“Cheese?”

Stan froze from that word cheese. Strangely, so did Anne after the word unexpectedly rolled from the edge of her tongue.

“It’s like ah…” she said slowly, “…you know, an expression.”

“Oh.”

Anne leaned closer.

“You’re not going loco on me, Stan. Are you?”

“It’s…” Stan drawled. “I don’t know. That was weird. I just…just…I don’t know.” Stan furrowed his brows. “I guess I just forgot what I was going to say.”

“Happens to all of us,” Anne said.

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled, shot a sharp glance at Anne, and then timidly sat back down in his chair. “Right.”

Anne rolled her eyes, placed the glasses on her face, and made a couple of calls.

 

12:20 PM

 

Ten minutes before taking a lunch break, Anne mostly piddled around the cubicle. She thought about giving Michael a call. Then, she remembered that he wasn’t a fan of talking on the phone. For him, it was easier to text. She came up with three texts (Hey there, then erased it, Wanna grab a bite, then erased it, Are you busy, then erased it) until she finally settled on: Hey, Michael. I was going to grab some lunch, wondering if you wanted to join?

 

Michael: I would love to, but I have a meeting

DirtyTill30: Some other time then.

Michael: How about we get together after my meeting?

DirtyTill30: I have a doctor’s apt at 3:45.

Michael: How does 2 sound?

DirtyTill30: Sounds perfect

Michael: I’ll text you when I get out

DirtyTill30: Ok.

 

12:25 PM

 

As her supervisor, Dave, was heading out the door for lunch, Anne informed him about the doctor’s appointment at “two o’clock,” and instead of letting her take a lunch, he told her to clock out around a quarter till two and take off the rest of the day. Anne agreed. Not like she had any choice in the matter. She made herself a cup of green tea in the break room and took it back to her cubicle where she mostly played the popular app, Angry Ducks, on her smartphone for the next twenty minutes.

 

1:37 PM

 

The desk suddenly vibrated!

“I appreciate your time, Ms. Connolly,” Anne said to the former customer, Jennifer Connolly. “Have a nice day.”

Anne removed the headset from her head and answered her vibrating phone.

“Hello,” she said.

“Ms. Roth, this Pam from Cherry Blossom Dry Cleaners.”

Anne gasped.

“I completely forgot,” she said nervously.

“That’s all right,” Pam said. “I call to let you know coat is ready for pickup.”

“Thank you,” she said with relief and then paused. “I actually can’t pick it up until later.”

“You pick up later?”

“Of course,” she said.

“What time?”

“What time do you close?”

“We close six o’clock.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. “I’ll pick it up before six. And thanks for calling.”

“You’re welcome,” the lady said. “Bye.”

 

2:07 PM

 

Seven minutes passed, and still no text from Michael.

         While she was waiting on Michael’s text, she decided to clock out and pick up her coat from the dry cleaners.

On the way to Cherry Blossom, she received a text from Michael.

 

Michael: Just got out of meeting. Wanna meet me at Yellow Fin in 10 minutes?

 

“Yellow Fin?” Anne said with mild disgust. “He knows I got food poisoning the last time we went there.” She let out a sigh and said to herself, “Whatever.”

 

DirtyTill30: Ok. See u there.

Anne stopped at the next intersection and did a U-turn. Yellow Fin was about fifteen minutes away, but Anne could make it there in ten.

 

2:18 PM

 

Michael’s car wasn’t in the parking lot when Anne pulled up to Yellow Fin. She did a last minute primp in the rear view mirror and waited on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and searched for Michael’s car for about five minutes until she finally pulled her phone from her purse.

Halfway through the text (Anne typing the words where and are on the keypad of her phone), she heard the rattle of a trunk from a bass system. She pulled her eyes from the phone and spotted Michael parking his black M3 BMW across two parking spaces near the back of the parking lot. He waited inside the car for about two minutes, but Anne couldn’t see what Michael was doing behind the tinted windows, which were not even considered street legal. He finally stepped out of the vehicle.

During his walk through the parking lot, he was texting on the phone. For a second, Anne thought he was texting her. So, naturally, she glanced down at her phone but received no text. She placed her phone back into her purse and waited for Michael, who was taking his time. He finally arrived at the sidewalk where Anne was waiting with her arms folded over her chest. He shot his head up at Anne, which was the first acknowledgement from the moment he arrived at Yellow Fin, and then forced a smile.

“Hi, babe,” he said and kissed Anne on the cheek.

“Hey,” Anne replied as she slipped her hand down by Michael’s side and intertwined her fingers between his, and together, they entered Yellow Fin.

 

2:40 PM

 

They grabbed a seat in front of the sushi bar, which, believe it or not, was fairly crowded considering the lunch crowd usually flowed in around noon and didn’t let up until a quarter after one. Most of the patrons were younger, hipsters and students who attended Western Madison University, which was a walking distance away from the restaurant. Instead of watching the chef prepare the sushi, Anne squared herself to Michael and devoted most of her attention to him. She asked him how the meeting went, which he replied, “Boring as usual.” Michael did most of the talking, mostly about himself, his colleagues, and not once, did he ask how Anne was doing. Right before they ordered California rolls, Michael received a text on the phone. Then, seconds later, his phone rang.

As Anne opened her mouth to speak, Michael held up his finger and said, “Hold that thought.”

He turned away from Anne and answered the phone.

For about a minute, he talked business and then mixed in a little pleasure with his colleague. Most of the conversation on the phone consisted of Michael bashing his new boss, who was a woman, and calling her derogatory names; and he even had the audacity to attack his boss’s character right in front of Anne—saying she was an anal you-know-what and that she needed to get a man in her life, a man who would you-know-what to her. Anne could only catch the word anal, which immediately caught her attention. She focused on Michael, what he was saying on the phone, and then him beaming and laughing while she drifted into a daze. Anne tried to focus on the words that projected from his mouth, but they were all disjointed and muddled together. Even the ambience around the sushi bar was muffled.

Michael motioned to Anne, whispering the words, “I’ll be back.”

With a vacant expression, Anne nodded her head as Michael stood up from his chair. He didn’t wander too far from Anne, not enough to where Anne couldn’t make out what he was saying, but even then, she still couldn’t comprehend a single word throughout the restaurant. She suddenly pulled herself from her thoughts, the volume clarifying in her ears. She took a sip of water, grabbed her purse, and darted toward the exit.

As Anne swung open the door and stepped outside, a firm hand grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her back into the restaurant. She spun around, only to witness Michael standing there. He released his hand from her arm.

“You mad?” he asked confusedly.

Anne cleared her throat.

“Michael,” she said, “I can’t do this anymore with you.”

“Do what?”

Her eyes widened.

“This!”

“What was I supposed to do?” He innocently shrugged. “I had to take a phone call. And now, what, you’re getting all mad at me?”

“You act like I don’t even exist, Michael.”

“You know I’ve been busy with work.”

“Then, why do you have a girlfriend, Michael?” Anne’s voice rose. “What am I even doing here?”

“I can make more time for you,” Michael said quietly. “Anne, please.” He glanced around the restaurant, hoping nobody was looking at them. “You’re making a scene.”

“You’re making a scene, Michael!” she blurted out. “This thing is supposed to go two ways!”

“And it will get back to that,” he said and stepped forward but Anne took another step back, closer to the door. “It’s just now, I’ve been busy…”

“I know,” Anne said scornfully. “You said that already.”

Michael sighed greatly.

Before he had a chance to reply, Anne stormed out of the restaurant.

“Where you going?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment,” she said over her shoulder. “Remember?”

“I thought that wasn’t until four.”

Anne paused, turned her shoulder, and then stormed back to Michael, who was standing at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Here’s one thing to think about,” she said sharply. “I want you to tell me one good thing you’ve done for me in the past month and then see if it amounts to half the bullshit I’ve done for you! Go on! Tell me, Michael!”

Michael childishly rolled his eyes, sighed, and then turned away.

“That’s what I thought,” Anne said coldly and walked away.

Michael callously waved her off and said under his breath, “Forget your ass.”

As Michael walked back into Yellow Fin, Anne was already getting into her car. She slammed the door behind her and dropped her head into her hands and cried deeply.

“Why is he doing this to me?” she whined, the tears racing from her eyes.

The feel of the tears on her cheeks seemed strange. Many times, especially while she was going through weight problems, she had cried. But not like this. Something was off, not with the emotion, but from what resulted in the emotion. She carefully fingered her cheek and then pulled her fingers away. She held her hands inches away from her face. The tears were thick, almost slimy to touch. When she pulled her wet fingers apart, a thick string pulled along with her fingers.

“Oh God,” she said suddenly and rubbed her fingers together.

The tears had the consistency of glue, only less sticky.

She reached into the glove compartment and found a napkin. She used the napkin to wipe the tears from her hands and then her face. She placed the damp napkin into her purse, wondering whether or not to give it to the ophthalmologist.

Finally, after about a minute of taking in deep breaths, slowly through her nose and then exhaling through her mouth, she stared into the rear view mirror where she cleaned the smudge of mascara from her face, as well as the phlegm from her nose with another napkin. Her eyes glazed over, and at that moment, all emotion emptied from Anne’s face.

 

3:20 PM

 

Anne got through the first two songs on the CD that she had ripped from the Internet (the compact disc being Mona’s Arch sophomore album, Machine Mistress, including an unreleased track from the Japanese release) before gathering enough nerve to turn off the car.

She pulled the mp3 player from an adapter, which was connected to the auxiliary input of the stereo interface, and exited the car.

 

3:34 PM

 

After Anne handled all of the basic procedures of signing in, which, in fact, didn’t require a signature from Anne at all but a scan of her palm and then a proof of insurance, she was asked to take a seat in the waiting room.

Despite the fact that there were only four other people in the waiting room, she waited for about twenty minutes until the nurse finally called her name and escorted her to her room. She was asked the standard questions: So, what brings you in today? How long have your eyes been hurting you? On a scale of one to ten, one being the least and ten being the worst, how would you rank your pain? Are you taking any medications for the pain? If so, which ones? Are you taking any over the counter medications? Are you allergic to any medications?

After the round of questions, the nurse exited the room and suggested Anne read a magazine while she waited for the ophthalmologist, Doctor Sanders. Anne didn’t read from the stack of magazines. Instead, she waited there on the table in that stale room and stared at a diagram showing the different parts and workings of the eye. Ten minutes later, the doctor finally entered the room. He was a thin man with little expression on his face. He greeted Anne with a handshake and then skimmed over Anne’s chart as he washed his hands in the sink. The doctor followed along with the same questions that the nurse had asked Anne prior to his entry. From there, he examined Anne’s eyes with a scope. Anne told the doctor about the tears and how thick they were; and she even showed him the napkin that she carried in her purse. However, the doctor didn’t appear too interested in the napkin. He told Anne that it could’ve been from allergies or the change in seasons. A couple of patients before him had complained about the same matter, at least that was what he told Anne. Then, she was tested on several strange devices, one being a phoropter and then another being a tonometry, which checked fluid pressure in Anne’s eye. Then, she read the letters from the Snellen chart on the far wall, starting from the biggest to the smallest letters. Anne read them off perfectly, which, more or less, baffled Doctor Sanders. He asked Anne if she had ever been through laser correctness surgery, and the reason, the doctor noted, was that Anne’s vision was actually much improved from her 20/40 vision; in fact, she was now on the fringe of 20/20, which meant she didn’t need any contacts or prescription glasses. The doctor asked more questions: Is there any change in your diet? What kind of foods do you eat on a daily basis? Doctor Sanders insisted that nothing was wrong with Anne; in fact, it was the artificial correctors like the contacts and the glasses that were causing the pain in her eyes, which, to Anne, seemed more or less…bizarre. Anne was prescribed a pair of glasses (pretty much reading glasses, which was about the lowest lens there was), and sent home with a clean bill of health.

 

5:47 PM

 

On the way to Cherry Blossom, Anne ran into heavy traffic on the interstate. The entire time in the car, she watched every minute pass on the dashboard. When the time reached 5:54, and she had only moved about two miles in the time span of seven minutes, she knew she was going to be late.

By the time Anne reached the dry cleaners, it was ten minutes past six.

Frustrated, she checked the front door, but it was locked. She peeked inside, but nobody was around.

On the way back to her car, Anne pulled out her phone.

 

DirtyTill30: Wanna grab a drink?

Jamie: Absolutely!

DirtyTill30: It’s been a long day. I sure as hell could go for something stiff right now 😉

Jamie: Shouldn’t Michael be helping you out in that department?

DirtyTill30: I mean a drink silly

Jamie: I’m teasing, Anne. Where do you want to go?

DirtyTill30: Happy Hour at Red Roxx?

Jamie: Yes!

Jamie: What time?

DirtyTill30: Can you meet me there at 6 30?

Jamie: I’ll be there! J

DirtyTill30: 🙂

 

6:33 PM

 

When Anne pulled up to Red Roxx, Jamie was already there.

“Hey, girl,” Jamie said.

Anne replied, “Hey. You got here fast.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said and pointed to the east of Park Road, “I was actually in the area. So, when you texted me, I was literally five minutes away. How are you?”

Anne groaned.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “First, I need a drink.”

Jamie smiled and said, “You and me both.”

 

6:36 PM

 

They sat at the end of the bar, sipped from their glasses of Vodka and club soda with a dash of lime, and checked out prospects around the bar. Anne was doing most of the scoping (her type being the thin ones but not sickly-thin like the ones in Lansford’s historic art district, North End, but a lean cultured man with a little gel in his hair who could at least bench his own body weight), which, to Jamie, was a clear sign that things weren’t going too well between her and Michael. However, Jamie never asked why she was scoping for men, mainly thin with dark hair, a little gel but not too much. She wasn’t one to cramp one’s style. Anne mentally noted that there wasn’t much potential; however, there was this one guy, she saw, tall and handsome, but he was with another girl. Other than that, it was the same crowd: middle-aged men, most, if not all married, catching the tail end of happy hour before they went home to the misses.

Jamie first started off the conversation with a question.

“So, how did your doctor’s visit go?” she asked and sipped from her drink.

She grimaced from the taste of the drink and then flagged down the bartender and asked him if she could have another lime to put in her drink.

“You won’t even believe me if I tell you,” Anne said without a single trace of excitement in her voice, despite the good news.

Jamie said teasingly, “Try me on for size.”

Anne furrowed her brows.

Then, she said, “He said my vision is better.”

“Better?” Jamie said and jerked back her head. “Better how?”

“Like twenty-twenty better.”

“Really?” Jamie said, her voice higher. “How is that even possible?”

“I have no idea, Jamie.”

Jamie pointed at Anne’s eyes.

“Are you wearing your contacts?”

“No.”

“How do you see right now?”

Anne briefly looked around the bar.

“I see fine,” she said surprisingly. “Just like I did in high school.”

“That is freaky,” Jamie said, sipping from her drink.

She smacked her lips together and nodded in satisfaction.

“How’s the drink?”

“Delicious.”

Anne sipped from the drink.

“Not bad,” she said with a grimace.

“So, tell me more about this visit,” Jamie said.

“I did all the tests,” she replied, “read the letters on the chart. When I took off my glasses, the pain in my eyes was gone.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally,” Anne said and took another sip from her drink.

“You’ve been wearing contacts ever since I’ve known you and you’ve never had a problem.”

“I’ve only had them for about four or five years,” Anne said. “I mean, before, my vision was normal. And now, well, I don’t know, it’s kind of hard to explain. It’s fine, I guess.”

“Well,” Jamie said as she raised her glass, “some things aren’t meant to be understood.” She toasted her glass against Anne’s glass. “Here’s to our eyes and keeping them beautiful.”

They both gulped from their drinks, Jamie killing hers and Anne leaving a little bit left.

“I thought I had a long day,” Anne said, noticing the empty drink in front of Jamie.

“And it’s only Tuesday.”

“I know, right?” Anne replied and finished the rest of her drink. “I can’t wait for the weekend.”

“I’m the same way.”

“Lately, it seems like every week I get more and more ready for the weekend,” Anne said to Jamie. “I mean, there’s been times when I’ve walked through those doors on Monday and been like, oh my God, is it Friday yet.”

“I know,” Jamie said giddily.

“It’s like every week is getting longer and longer,” she said. “It’s like I’m in a time warp.”

Jamie made a high pitch “Oh-we-you” noise with her mouth.

Then, said: “You’re in the Twilight Zone.”

Anne said from the side of her mouth, “Funny.”

Jamie giggled a little.

“Hate to say it, Anne, but,” she said, more flatly now, “I’ve learned that the job is the only thing carrying me through the week. That,” a grin inched its way across her face, “and watching Taylor bend over to grab his Dark Bar from the vending machine. I swear, that man has an ass like a model. He should be an ass model.”

Anne shrugged.

“Euh,” she said.

“You don’t think so.”

“He’s not that attractive.”

“I never said ass models were attractive,” Jamie said and sucked on a piece of ice from her empty glass. “They got a nice ass. That’s all. Hints: ass model. I mean, Anne…they wouldn’t be ass models if they didn’t have a nice ass. Now, would they?”

“No,” Anne said. “They wouldn’t.”

The bartender chimed in, “Would you ladies like another?”

“Yes,” Jamie said, “please.”

As the bartender went to prepare their drinks, Jamie suddenly blurted out, “Wait a second!”

The bartender strolled back to the bar.

Jamie said to Anne, “How about cherry bombs!”

“Cherry bombs?” Anne said with a cringe. “You know, we do have to work tomorrow.”

Jamie shrugged and did so with a grin on her face and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“It’s still early,” she said quietly. “Besides, tonight is a night of celebration. Tonight is for you, gorgeous.”

Anne sighed.

“All right,” Anne said, as Jamie ordered two cherry bombs, “but if I’m hungover tomorrow, I’m going to…”

Jamie turned away from the bartender, who was now preparing their drinks.

She said sassily, “You’re going to what?”

“I’m going to kick your ass,” Anne said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

Jamie laughed.

“Girl, I like to see you try!”

“Hey,” Anne said louder, “just because I’m now a skinny bitch doesn’t mean I can’t still throw some bows. I got a mean right hook, Jamie. Ask David Sherman.”

“Well,” Jamie said closer now, “I don’t know who David Sherman is, but I’m sure you kicked his ass.”

Anne sipped from the melted ice in the glass and said with a smirk worn on one side of her face, “Ex boyfriend. We went out in ninth grade and then I found out he cheated on me with this slut, a senior who was on the cheerleading squad. Gave him a black eye.”

“Get outta here!”

“Hey,” Anne said. “If you don’t believe me, then ask David…”

“I got it,” Jamie repeated, smiling. “Ask David Sherman.”

 

8:50 PM

 

It usually didn’t pick up until around ten o’clock and yet it was fairly crowded for “Ladies Night,” as it was known at Red Roxx, which they had every Tuesday and Thursday night, Thursday being the busiest night of the week. On these two particular nights women received half-price on all drinks, even the fancy, colorful kind, which, for both Anne and Jamie, either worked for or against their convenience: for, meaning they didn’t have to fork out a lot of their hard-earned money for drinks, even the fancy kind; or against, meaning it attracted a bunch of double-s-assholes who were trying to take full advantage of the ladies. That’s Stingy-Sleazy for those who were asking, “What the hell is a SS asshole?” The worst nights especially for Anne: Thursday nights, which attracted SSHD a-holes—Stingy-Sleazy-Horny-Dopey. Anne didn’t have to worry too much about a barfly playing the trump card on her. There weren’t many douche bags around, at least none who could quite fit up to her standards. She tamed her gaze and decided to eat before the night got out of hand. Both she and Jamie soaked up the alcohol with an order of two appetizers, Red Roxx’s famous southwestern egg rolls and then a plate of Korean barbeque with lettuce wraps—the lettuce wraps being for Anne. They finished their appetizers in swift form and nursed a lite beer.

When most of the patrons who were there only for the food had left and then a much younger crowd who was there only for the drinks and the music had funneled in, one of Anne’s favorite songs came on. The song, “Wax Sculpture,” by none other than Mona’s Arch, debuted fifteen years ago, thus making it what Anne called an oldie, despite the song having only been fifteen years old. Every now and then, at Red Roxx or any other bar or club for that matter, the DJ would play an old gem like “Wax Sculpture” if the dance floor was sparse, provoking the ineluctable “Oh my God! That’s my song!” line from at least one person in the crowd. Classic ruse used by DJs. From there, all it took was one person to hit the dance floor. After that, others would eventually gather around and test the waters.   Then, not too long after, the place was jumping like a flea over dry hide.

Before Anne and Jamie went back to the bar, they picked out a guy who wasn’t doing much dancing at all, mostly people-watching, and asked him to take their picture, one Anne could post on MyCircle. The guy was more than pleased to take the picture. Unfortunately for Anne, he just so happened to take the picture when Anne was complaining to him about how slow it was taking him to take the picture. He took two pictures without a stutter and handed Anne back her phone. What the guy had taken was beyond posting, Anne saw as the guy disappeared in the crowd. In the picture, Jamie looked good as always, keeping to her gleaming smile as the guy yelled out, “Say cheese!” Anne, on the other hand, had an ugly face, one eye squinted, teethed bared like a rabid dog, ugly.

 

9:24 PM

 

At the bar, they hammered their way through three more rounds of shots, not the cherry bombs but three shots of a pineapple-flavored vodka, and then followed with a lite beer. Despite having eaten about an hour ago, Anne started to feel the effects of the alcohol and clearly showed it in her behavior.

Anne closed one eye and with the other, she peered at the older man in the sports coat sitting at the other end of the bar.

“There you go, Jamie,” Anne said, nodding in the vicinity of the older man. “What do you think of that guy? He’s kind of cute.”

Jamie finally acknowledged the man who was staring down at his phone.

“No thank you,” she said aloofly. “He looks like he’s been clinging onto that suit for the past ten years.”

“So what,” Anne slurred. “He’s cute.”

“Probably married.”

“Prolly,” Anne replied and looked closer. “I don’t see a ring.”

Jamie sipped from her beer.

“For one,” she said, “he’s twice your age, Anne.”

“So,” Anne blurted out.

“And he has a flip phone,” Jamie returned. “Come on. Really? It’s not the nineties.”

“You wouldn’t go out with a guy who has a flip phone?”

Jamie shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Would you?”

“Really, Jamie,” Anne said surprisingly. “You think I’m that…that conceited. If two people love each other…”

“Wow, Anne,” Jamie said quietly. “You haven’t even met the man and you’re talking about love.” Her eyes widened. “Wow.”

“In general,” Anne corrected. “It doesn’t matter what kind of phone they own or what car they drive or what clothes they wear. I don’t want to be with a man who always puts himself first, a man who thinks that buying gifts will make up for how bad he really treats you.” She shrugged one shoulder, left the other one deflated. “Gifts are nice. I can’t complain.”

“Sure,” Jamie drawled.

“I don’t know, Jamie,” Anne said over Jamie. “Maybe I don’t want gifts and jewelry and roses or chocolate. I don’t care about the money, Jamie. For all I care, that guy over there could be a garbage man who owns one nice suit.”

“A garbage man?” Jamie said, her eyes narrowing. “Really, Anne? You’ve reduced yourself to garbage men?”

“I just want a man who has my back,” Anne said, “and I had that with Michael, at least when we first started going out. Now, he can hardly even look me in the freaking eye. I want a man who actually sees me, Jamie. Materials,” she shrugged once more, now both shoulders, “materials are things that disguise who we really are. And if you strip them away, then all you have is yourself.”

“I mean, Anne,” Jamie said, “it’s not like we’re living in prehistoric days where we walk around with a club and a piece of road kill for underwear.”

“We’re almost there,” she said grumpily, “at the rate society is going…”

“Don’t be like that,” Jamie said over Anne’s voice. “Materials are what set us apart from those people on the side of the street begging for money. That’s just the way it is now. You can either except it or join the guy with the cardboard sign. You know he could always use the company.”

Anne lowered her chin, brows furrowed into a V.

“That’s harsh, Jamie,” she said.

As Anne did, Jamie harmlessly shrugged her shoulders.

Anne chugged her beer, leaving mostly head at the bottom.

Jamie said foolishly, “It’s reality.” She focused more on Anne, the defeat in her face, as well as in her voice. “I say forget about guys for now. That means Michael as well. Concentrate on work.” She leaned closer to Anne. “That’s exactly what I do when I can’t find a decent man. I focus on work and I keep climbing my way to the top.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Jamie,” Anne said and then motioned to the young bartender for another beer. Without saying a word, he pulled out a bottle of beer from the cooler of ice, opened it, and then placed it in front of Anne. “Thanks,” Anne said to the bartender and then directed her attention back to Jamie. “I can care less about moving my way up the corporate ladder. You really want to be doing what Dave does? Really, Jamie? Longer hours. Not much more pay…”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Anne,” Jamie emphasized as Anne gulped from her fresh beer. “I say you stroll into USR tomorrow and whop Tim’s ass in sales. I’m serious. Put his lame ass to shame.”

Anne hung her head and mumbled, “I don’t know.”

As Anne went to rest the beer, she spotted Susanne across the bar. She threw a nod toward Susanne’s way. In return, Susanne, who was sitting next to a younger man, mid-twenties, wearing a dark Polo shirt with blue jeans as tight as his skin, acknowledged Anne with a discreet wave. Susanne finished her Jack and Coke and then split with the young man after he paid the tab.

Jamie followed Anne’s eyes.

“Is that Susanne?” Jamie asked, peering closer. “With a guy who could pass as her son?”

“Don’t judge.”

“Uh,” Jamie stuttered. “I’m not.”

Anne waved around the bar.

“Judge-free zone.”

“Right,” Jamie said, a strange tension building in her voice. “I’m not going to judge a forty-three year old mother with two children who goes to bars every week and picks up young guys.” Jamie paused suddenly. “And it’s not even a weekend…”

“So what, Jamie,” Anne said. “A woman has needs. We have needs. Right?”

“Of course,” Jamie said in return, but this time with a high voice. “But she has children to look after.”

“Did you ever think that maybe she has a baby sitter?” Anne asked. “Or maybe her ex has the kids this week?”

“Maybe,” Jamie said quietly and then her voice rose with excitement, “I don’t understand women who get married and then, when things get tough, they bail. Where I’m from marriage is sacred. Sure. I know times have changed. Marriage is a lot broader than the past, which,” she expanded her arms in demonstration, doing a lot of talking with her hands as well, “I’m totally cool with,” Jamie said casually as she shifted her weight closer to Anne. She sat upright on the stool and then squared herself to the bar. “Once you tie the knot, then that’s it. It’s done. That is your partner for life. If things get tough, you learn how to work through your issues, especially if you have kids.”

“Yeah,” Anne said defensively, “but, Jamie, what if you’re not happy, then you have every right to leave.”

Jamie shrugged.

“Tough,” she said.

“The way I look at it…marriage—in a way—is…is…” she searched for the right words, which was like panning for gold in a creek—given Anne’s drunken state, “…it’s filled with certain…” there it was, that word, glimmering in the sieve, “…certain compromises.”

“Absolutely,” Jamie said in return. “I agree.”

“But if he can’t compromise or change,” Anne said, “then what’s the point?”

Jamie never responded to Anne’s question.

They both sipped from their beers, Anne killing hers.

“It’s sad to say,” Jamie said quietly, “but today, you don’t even need a man anymore to have a family.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Jamie said, “the whole artificial insemination thing.”

Anne said sardonically, “Where’s the fun in that?”

“I know right?”

Jamie laughed awkwardly; however, Anne kept to her somber state.

Then, a silence swelled over the conversation.

“You okay, Anne?” Jamie asked as she studied her friend.

“I’m a little,” Anne said loosely, her left eye squinting a bit, “a little off-kilter.”

“Are you gonna be straight to drive?”

“I don’t mean like that, Jamie,” Anne said with her head held down.

“Then, what do you mean?”

“Not setting my alarm last night,” Anne listed, “waking up late this morning, skipping lunch, having that fight with Michael…you know how I am…”

“Yes,” Jamie said as she sipped from the beer. “I know, creature of habit. That’s unlike you to show up late like that.”

“Well,” Anne said, “it wasn’t like I was an hour late. I was only like ten minutes late.”

“Yeah, but still, that’s unlike you.” Jamie leaned closer. “Are you feeling well? Are you on drugs?”

“Stop it,” Anne said seriously.

“Because if you’re not,” Jamie said mischievously, “then I got some pretty sweet drugs in my car that—trust me—will make you feel a whole lot better. If you know what I mean.”

Anne cracked a smile, wounded.

“That’s the smile I was looking for,” Jamie said closely as she studied the smile on Anne’s face. “I knew it was buried deep somewhere in that face of yours.”

“Thanks,” Anne said, “but not now, not tonight.”

“Okay.”

Anne paused in thought.

“Do you ever feel like you’re trapped in someone else’s body? Like…”

“Like…”

“You know like…”

“Like what, Anne?”

“Like a robot?”

“A robot?”

“No,” Anne corrected. “Like a clone or something.”

“A clone?”

“Yeah.”

Jamie chuckled.

“I’m serious,” Anne said over Jamie’s laughter. “Do you ever feel like your body is like…I don’t know…like you’re attached to this giant string, and all you’re doing is…is drifting along through life with no movement whatsoever, floating around like ah…like…like this ghost?”

“So, now you’re a ghost and a clone?”

Anne’s face went expressionless.

“I can’t keep doing this to myself, Jamie,” Anne said, her tone sharp and steady. “I don’t see how you do it everyday. You say the job is what carries you through the day, but, to me, I don’t know, it’s the job that’s making me worse.” Anne sighed. “I’m just sick and tired.”

“Sick and tired of what, Anne?”

“Of coming to these same ole freaking places,” she said. “Why do we keep coming here?”

“You mean Red Roxx?”

Anne said bitterly, “Where else would I be talking about?”

“Okay,” Jamie said as she eased away from Anne, “retract the claws, Anne.”

Anne paused for a moment.

“All I’m saying,” Anne hesitated, “this place is a black hole.”

Jamie furrowed her brows.

“How so?”

“Don’t you get sick and tired of coming here all the time, seeing the same tired faces, bumping into the same douche bags…”

Jamie shot a glance at the bartender, who was shaking his head with a sense of amusement rather than disgust.

She whispered to him, “Sorry.”

“…and yet,” Anne continued, “we keep coming back like this is the last place left on earth and we’re trapped in a fucking loop. Like a black hole, sucking us in every time we come here and spitting us out for shits and giggles.”

“Anne,” Jamie said sincerely, “you keep coming back here because you’re looking for him.”

“Him?”

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “Him, you know, Mr. Right. Your knight in shining armor. Prince Charming.”

“Jamie, I’m not going to find Prince Charming in a place like this,” she said. “Besides, I think I’m in the wrong city. I know it and yet, it’s like, I can’t leave even if I try.”

“What’s wrong with Lansford?” Jamie asked. “You practically got everything you need here…”

“Lansford is a transplant city,” she said. “All that live here is a bunch of stuck-up wannabes pretending to be someone they’re not.”

“So…”

“So?” Anne mimicked.

“They’re not all like that.”

“All people care about around here is work,” Anne said bitterly. “That’s all it is. And if it’s not work, then it’s ‘who can I fuck after I get off work?’”

Jamie slowly rotated her head toward Anne.

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“Whatever.”

“Thought we were in the ‘judge-free zone,’ Anne.”

“We are,” she said dourly. “It’s just…I don’t know…it gets old. That’s all.”

“But where else are you gonna find a man—like a really good man—at this hour of the night?” Jamie asked loudly. “If it were me, I’d start by looking in bookstores, coffee shops, or festivals. Those kinds of things. Not now, but you know, sometime during the day.”

“I work all day,” Anne said coldly. “Remember?”

“I’m talking about the weekends,” Jamie replied. “I mean, if you really want ‘It’ at night, it’s only lust. If you want ‘It’ during the day and everyday and every hour, every second of your life with that one person who you think about all day, well, it’s love.”

“Well,” Anne said closely, “I could use ‘It’ right now. Not just ‘It,’ but I’m talking about the It of the century, the kind of ‘It’ where you can’t walk straight for the next three days. You can call it whatever you want…lust…love…”

“I’m telling you, Anne,” Jamie said. “That’s only going to make it worse. If you’re really looking for a man to settle down with, which,” she leaned closer for a moment, “I know you are, then for one, it’ll happened if it’s supposed to happen, and two, I wouldn’t look in a bar, and three, I wouldn’t be sleeping around with every guy who acknowledges me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Two weeks ago,” Jamie said. “Remember?”

Anne didn’t respond.

“Does Michael know?”

“That wasn’t my fault, Jamie,” Anne said. “I was wasted.”

“That guy totally took advantage of you,” Jamie said. “If he didn’t pull that shady shit, saying that you two were going outside for a smoke, then that little excursion never would’ve happened. I’m not one to cock block, but damn, Anne, that guy was a complete mess…”

Anne remained quiet.

“Sorry,” Jamie said softly.

“I’m confused, Jamie.” The tears swelled within Anne’s eyes. “I…I don’t even know who I am or what I’m doing anymore. By the time I reach thirty, my face is going to look like an old catcher’s mitt. Who the hell would want me by then? Who would want to go out with a face like that? Let’s face it.” She sniffled up the phlegm in her nose. “I’m gonna be alone for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t talk like that, Anne.”

“I mean it,” Anne said, louder, “I just…I just want to feel the smile on my face, Jamie, to know that it’s real. That’s all.”

“Do you want to be alone, Anne?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t, but…”

“But what, Anne?” Jamie said, leaning closer to Anne. “Don’t act like the world has turned its back on you, Anne, because it hasn’t. Maybe you want it to, Anne. Only you choose whether or not you want to be alone. You, Anne.”

“I mean, don’t you…I don’t know…don’t you ever think about leaving…”

“Leaving where?”

“I don’t know,” she stuttered, “like somewhereexotic, somewhere where people speak a different language…”

“Anne,” Jamie said expressionlessly, “now you’re starting to sound like a crazy person.”

“Call me crazy,” she said aggressively. “Call me whatever you like. I’m sick and tired, Jamie. I’m sick of going through the motions. I’m tired of the constant abuse day in and day out, people treating me like I’m a fucking doormat. I’ve had enough of it!”

“Aw, Anne,” Jamie said as she rubbed the back of Anne’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you feel like that.” Jamie momentarily drifted into thought. “You know, I always wanted to move to a small town where everybody knows each other by their first name. Open up my own hair salon. Every single woman in town would come to my salon. I’d give them all different kinds of haircuts, each one different from the next. Then, I,” Jamie cracked a smile, “when the women in the town would ask where they got their haircuts, they would always mention my name…” Jamie bobbed her head, “…now, I’d like that, Anne.” She turned her attention toward Anne. “It’s fantasy. All I know is the present, the now. I can’t go running off to a small town and open up my own hair salon. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Jamie sighed. “This is where you’re at right now. Instead of trying to find whatever you’re looking for elsewhere, you have to open your eyes, Anne, and accept the hand you’ve been dealt.”

Anne sipped from the empty beer.

“One day,” she said, calmer now, “you’re going to stop by my cubicle and there’s going be nothing left of me but a pool of blood.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, Jamie,” she said solemnly. “This job is turning me into a zombie, in the afternoons…Thank God for the gym. If I didn’t have the gym…”

Jamie leaned back, her face lit up with eureka.

“Ah-ha!” Jamie blurted out. “You’re talking about that three o’clock feeling. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah!”

“Like you just want to melt in your chair like the Wicked Witch of the West?”

“Yeah!” Anne’s voice rose higher. Her face lit as well. “Exactly!”

“It’s called six-hour energy,” she said and reached into her purse on the stool next to her. “I take them every day after lunch and it keeps me focused for the rest of the day.”

“That crap makes me twitchy.”

Jamie displayed the tiny bottle to Anne.

“Not this stuff,” she said. “No side-effects. No crash…”

“So, exactly how much are they paying you to advertise that stuff?”

“I’m serious,” Jamie said. “I felt the same exact way before I took this…” Jamie rattled the bottle and then winked at Anne, “…works like a charm.”

Anne let out a yawn.

“Am I boring you?”

“No,” she followed. “I don’t think a pill can cure the way I feel.”

“Sure it can,” Jamie said bluntly as she squared herself to Anne. “You’re only twenty-four years old, Anne. You’re still young. People make career changes all the time. Hell! I know a guy who’s in his late-thirties, and he gave up engineering to work in retail. A grocery store, Anne! Now, he owns a small organic store off Cameron Avenue. He doesn’t make that much money, but he’s happy, Anne. And in today’s world, that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter what you do. Remember that, Anne.”

“Says the woman who was bashing garbage men.”

Jamie smacked her gums and rolled her eyes, as an adolescent would do.

“All that matters is what makes you happy.” Jamie finished her beer. “The question you should be asking yourself: What makes you happy?”

 

10:38 PM

 

Before the overhead lights came on throughout Red Roxx and spotlighted the poor, desperate souls clinging onto last call—twelve o’clock during the weekdays, two o’clock during weekends—both Anne and Jamie staggered from the bar.

Parked along the curb was a taxi van with the phone number 777-7777 written along the side of the door, which made it easy to remember, especially after a late night of drinking—just hit one number a bunch of times until there was a ring.

As Anne’s heel caught the edge of the curb, she stumbled forward. She reached out to grab Jamie before the fall, but accidentally grabbed Jamie’s chest.

In return, Jamie grabbed Anne, removed the hand from her breast, and balanced Anne upright.

“Whoa there,” Jamie said, laughing. “Rounding second base. Are we?”

“Sorry,” Anne said innocently. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Jamie leaned forward and studied Anne’s face, the dark bags underneath her glossy, red eyes.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“I’m fine,” Anne slurred and sipped from the bottle of water. “I swear. I’ve driven under worse conditions.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said, louder this time. “I’m fine. I don’t even feel that drunk.”

Anne waved off Jamie and reached into her purse. The purse slipped from her hands and fell to the ground. Jamie kneeled down and picked up the purse, as well as the contents from inside the purse, which included a tube of mascara and a bottle of Paxil that had spilled onto the sidewalk.

Jamie read the drug on the bottle.

“Paxil?”

“Yeah,” Anne said with deflation. “My crazy pills.”

“Anne,” Jamie said seriously, “you didn’t drink while taking these. Did you?”

Anne frowned.

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” Jamie said as she cautiously handed the purse to Anne. “Just be careful.”

“Always am.”

Anne glanced around the quiet street, and as she pulled her eyes back to Jamie, she spotted the same exact car from last night, the one following her from the gym, parked across the street. She looked twice, and did so without fully turning her head toward the car’s direction.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked. “Anne?”

Anne’s face went blank and sober.

“Do you mind following me home?” she asked. “Make sure I get home okay?”

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll follow you home,” Jamie said clearly.

Anne paused once more on the way to her car, which wasn’t parked too far from the bar.

“Jamie?”

Anne turned around and faced Jamie.

“Wassup?”

She hung her head for a moment and then glanced around the empty street. Her red eyes shifted into thought. Stilled. Then, she moved her eyes back to Jamie.

“Don’t follow too close,” she said finally.

“Sure thing, Anne,” Jamie said with a smile and strolled away. “I’ll see you bright and early in the morning!” Jamie walked farther away. “And you better be at work!”

Anne thinking: work, why did she have to bring up work?

For a moment, as brief as it was, the thought of USR was the farthest thing from her mind, and yet, once the word work was mentioned, that feeling came over Anne again, that sinking feeling, the one Anne knew all too well.

 

10:47 PM

 

“You got a flat tire…” a raspy voice said from over Anne’s shoulder as she inserted the key into the door.

She removed the key from the door and turned her shoulder, only to find an older black man, well into his sixties, possibly seventies, skinny, standing like a wilted daisy on the side of the alleyway, with a scanty white beard, red eyes hidden behind a pair of murky glasses, and a brown bag covering a whiskey bottle in his right hand, cigarette smoked down to the filter in the other. He was wearing a yellow fedora and a dark leather jacket, which appeared as if it was family heirloom, sections of the sleeves cracked like chapped lips.

With caution, Anne stepped back from the car and glanced down at each tire on her car, all inflated, not flat.

“Nah, Baby Girl,” the old man said once more. “You got a flat tire.”

“Excuse me,” Anne said, taking a step closer to the strange old man.

“You not listenin’,” he said with a soft lisp as he flicked the ash, which was about as long as the cigarette itself. “Your soul has a flat tire. So, Baby Girl, what do you do when you got a flat tire?”

Anne shrugged.

“You fix it?”

“There you go!” he said jubilantly. “You fix it!”

He beamed from one side of his face to the other, exposing his coffee stained teeth, as tiny as woodchips.

A bright light flashed in the corner of Anne’s eye, which pulled her attention from the old man. She faced the light, squinted from the two headlights of a burgundy car, and then peered through the light where Jamie was waiting behind the steering wheel.

“Let’s go, Anne,” she said from the cracked window. “It’s getting late.”

“What’s your name?” Anne said as she rotated her shoulder.

The old man was nowhere around.

Anne searched the side alleyway, but, just like that, he was gone.

 

11:12 PM

 

As Jamie drove away, Anne extended her hand from the driver’s side window and waved goodbye as she pulled the car into the garage. She safely parked the car and walked to the mailbox. There was no mail in the mailbox. Then, she checked the neighbor’s mailbox, which always had the red flag up; however, the red flag was down, not up. She checked the inside of the mailbox again, thinking that maybe her weary eyes were fooling her. She blindly reached her hand inside the mailbox, but there was nothing.

Another holiday, Anne wondered. Who knows?

On the way to the house, Anne heard a car approaching from behind her.

She turned to the car.

Before she could make out the car, mainly the headlights, the car suddenly took a left onto another street and vanished into the night darkness.

“Get a grip, Anne,” she said to herself and walked into the house via the front door.

She locked both locks on the door and peeped through the curtains.

The street was still and quiet, not a car on the road.

 

11:24 PM

 

After grabbing a snack from the pantry and downing two glasses of water, Anne undressed and prepared a warm bath. While doing so, she began to feel nauseous. So, Anne did something that Jamie had taught her a while back, which helped cure Anne’s nausea, and that was running her fingers under warm water. She did this for about three minutes until the nausea faded a little. She checked the time, and then, having realized the time, turned on the television. The show, Blood Diaries, was replaying on air for those who missed the ten o’clock show. Anne was about halfway into the show, precisely twenty-seven minutes. For the sake of spoilers, she skipped the rest of the show and planned on staying off the blogs until she caught a rerun on the Internet later in the week.

Discouraged, she turned off the television and ambled to the bathroom where the water was almost done filling the tub.

 

11:36 PM

 

Anne removed each layer of clothes, starting from her torso and then making her way down to her legs and feet, lastly her wool socks, until she was as bare as the day she was born. Her pale body caught her eye in the reflection of the mirror. She stumbled over to the mirror, that pale reflection—both of her eyes bloodshot from the alcohol—and leaned over the sink with languid movement.

The question came without a second’s thought: “Who am I?”

In the mirror, she looked over the old scars on her body, a long and pink and jagged one that stretched all the way up the right side of her ribcage, and then a vertical scar, as narrow as a blade, along her upper abdomen from where she ruptured her diaphragm in an accident she had no memory of, only the flashes of a distant nightmare which had haunted her whenever she closed her eyes to sleep.

 

11:49 PM

 

Anne eased herself into the warm, bubbly water and lit a couple of scented candles on the edge of the tub, mostly eucalyptus.

As she oozed farther down into the tub, she lifted one leg from the water and applied shaving cream to the leg, starting from her ankle to her thigh. She used the razor, which she kept on the lip of the tub, and slid the blade along her leg the same way she applied the shaving cream: from her ankle to her thigh.

Each stroke ran farther up her thigh, close to her pubic hair.

While running the blade around her knee, she felt a sudden tug of the blade and then a pinch over her skin. The blade popped from the mount and fell into the water. She sat upright and caressed her knee.

When Anne pulled her hand from the soapy water, she pulled something else in return. She pulled her hand closer to her face. The same as in the bathroom, Anne thought as she studied the piece of skin between her fingertips.

The sliver of skin was the same exact size as the one before, the size of a fingernail, hard like a fingernail too.

Almost, she wondered, like a snake’s scale.

“What in the…” Anne drawled as she cringed in disgust.

She lifted her leg from the water and checked her skin. There was no bruise, no cut, no blood, no mark on her body. Nothing whatsoever.

Letting out a sharp yuck, Anne waggled her fingers until they were clean and then searched for the razor blade at the bottom of the tub. She finally came across the tiny blade. Instead of trying to pick up the blade, which could’ve resulted in further injury, she pressed the blade against the tub and slid the tiny thing against the side of the tub.

Once the blade was free from the water, she finally got her two fingers around the blade. For the longest time, Anne stared at that glistening blade—part of it speckling with froths of soap—and contemplated the one thought that had been cooped up in the recesses of her mind. Anne wondered about them, them as in her colleagues at USR, and whether or not they would miss her. Would they ridicule her even after she was gone? How about her foster parents? What would they think? She couldn’t possibly put such a burden on them—especially after all they had done for her. But then again…

As Anne gently pressed the blade against her pale wrist, she heard a car door slam shut from outside!

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