Conrad is leaving town?
So he’ll be gone for Halloween this coming Monday. Perfect.
64
Simon
Friday morning is dark and chilly, which feels about right. I walk down from the law school to the Chicago Title & Trust Building and arrive well before ten. My walk was faster than normal, though I didn’t realize it. Must be the nerves.
I grab my coffee and power on my phone. At ten o’clock, I text:
Good morning princess
Her reply doesn’t come right away. I sip the coffee while people come in and out of the building, checking with security, sliding passes over scanners as iron gates allow them through to the different elevator banks. Finally, my phone pings:
Hey
Not the warmest of greetings. My response:
I hate Fridays. Most people love Fridays but I hate them. Because I can’t talk to you again until Monday morning.
She doesn’t respond. A reasonable person would think she’s either distracted or reticent. I throw her some more:
Every day that I can’t talk to you or be with you is like torture.
Her reply box bubbles. It takes more than two minutes before she responds:
I know it stinks
Not exactly a font of conversation today, are we? I try to engage her more than that:
Very soon, we can be together EVERY day, not just Mon-Tues-Weds-Thurs.
She doesn’t respond. The coffee is cooling enough that I can drink it in greater gulps, and I do, because there’s not much else to do. This is a one-sided conversation. I try this:
Something wrong? You seem distracted
This time, her reply comes quickly:
Yes sorry
Yes, what? You’re distracted, or something’s wrong? But a halfway normal person would let this go for now and not push. So that’s what I do:
Ok, well I hope you’re doing ok and I can’t wait to talk to you Monday. Have a great weekend! Love you! See you on Monday Halloween
This time, her reply comes quickly:
You too
I stare at the phone for a while. Nothing else comes. I power it down, remove the SIM card, and shove the phone in my pocket. I leave the building just in time for the rainfall to begin.
65
Vicky
Friday, noon sharp. I arrive in the alley by Christian’s garage door. I type in the pass code to his garage. The door grinds open. I close my umbrella and step inside. Christian is by the interior door waiting for me. He hits a button to close the door behind me.
Christian looks the same superficially as always, the male-model, pretty-boy thing, but he is all nerves, wearing a frown on his face and some dark circles under his eyes.