Once I unlock the door, I drop my briefcase in the front hall and kick off my shoes. It’s no big deal. Anya was working on the Lavin account all afternoon so she’s probably staying late to wrap things up. Whatever the case, it must be taking longer than expected.
Not that I can’t keep myself busy. I tidy the room, making sure to put the flowers in a vase on the counter. Anya loves red roses so I got three dozen. I figure it can’t hurt to make a big statement.
When nine o’clock comes and goes, I finally give in and eat a microwave pizza. I turn on the local sports news and sit down on the couch to wait.
I wake suddenly, glancing around the room warily. I’m sprawled across the couch with a throw pillow tucked under my head. My half-eaten slice of pizza is still on the coffee table. The clock on the wall reads 11:36 p.m.
“Anya? Are you here?”
Rising slowly, I ignore the lingering ache in my back from sleeping in that weird position as I walk back to the bedroom.
It’s empty.
I take out my phone and send a quick text. Immediately I see the little dots indicating that she’s typing. Then they disappear. My patience gone, I hit the button to call.
“Law, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, I know. I was waiting for you.”
“I told you there was nothing to talk about.”
My brain is still sluggish from sleep so it takes me a minute to process. I knew she was mad but I didn’t think that meant she wasn’t coming. Anya is the most easygoing person I know. Even when she’s mad at me, she can’t maintain it for long.
“I was worried when you didn’t show up.”
“There’s no need to worry about me. I’m a big girl. I’m in my pajamas reading a book.”
The mental image of her cozy in bed and perfectly fine makes my own disheveled state even more offensive. Apparently she’s completely fine with this sudden disruption to our schedule.
“So, you’re not coming?”
“No. I’m not coming.”
Panic rises and it feels like the back of my throat is closing up. This feels different than the other times we’ve fought. There’s something in her voice that makes me feel the need to drive over there right now, hour of night be damned. But considering the mood she’s in there’s no guarantee she’d even open the door.
“Okay, tomorrow then.”
She sighs. “Not tomorrow either. I have plans.”
“Plans? What kind of plans?”
“Does it matter? After all, it’s not like you’re my husband.”
Then she hangs up, leaving me wondering what the hell just happened to my uncomplicated life.
“Okay then.”
I open the fridge, thinking a snack will help and I’m greeted by a whole lot of empty space. There’s barely any food inside. I try to remember the last time I went grocery shopping. I can’t remember.
Then I think of all the times Anya has shown up with grocery bags. I used to tease her about hoarding food like a doomsday prepper.
Not so funny now, huh?
The pantry isn’t much better but I’m able to find a loaf of bread that luckily doesn’t have mold on it. Toast will have to do for a midnight snack.
But as I stand at the counter a few minutes later chewing the dry bread, I sincerely hope this isn’t a metaphor for how my life is going to be from now on.
The next morning I arrive at the office late. It feels like a million eyes are on my back when I finally push through the glass double doors leading into the agency. This is the first time in five years that I’ve gotten here past eight o’clock. That’s what happens when you can’t find your shoes and you almost run out of gas on the highway and have to stop at a random station.