Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 4 Book 1

By Peter Wright

A fantastic anthology of novellas that don't fit neatly in a box. Includes The Witch Girl and the Wobbly by Michael Cooney, Please Listen Carefully As Our Options Have Changed by Eric Aldrich, Hearts In the Dark by Christopher Woods, Allure by Ed Burke, Eternal Spring by Cora Tate, Shipped Off by Gordon Blitz, and Shangri La by Mark Williams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947041837

Book preview

Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 4, Book 1

Edited by Peter Wright

Running Wild Press

Contents

ALLURE

By Ed Burke

The Witch Girl and The Wobbly

By Michael Cooney

Please Listen Carefully as Our Options Have Changed

By Eric Aldrich

Eternal Spring

By Harlan Yarbrough

Shipped Off

By Gordon Blitz

HEARTS IN THE DARK

By Christopher Woods

Shangri La

By Mark Williams

Bios

Other titles by Running Wild

About Running Wild Press

Running Wild Novella Anthology, Volume 4, Book 1

Text Copyright © 2020 Held by each novella’s author

All rights reserved.

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Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com Educators, librarians, book clubs (as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com for teaching tools.

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ISBN (pbk) 978-1-947041-63-9

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-947041-64-6

ALLURE

By Ed Burke

Chapter One

Monica swam like a long, black fish, sinuous, through dark, still water. When I met her, I swam like a brown trout, striving to find my place in a rushing stream. Or so it seemed. Monica worked in the cubicle on the other side of my divider. She brought food to work that smelled like a demented high school biology lab. I never saw her put anything in the refrigerator in the breakroom, or take anything out. I never saw her in the breakroom.

I once imagined her there, in the breakroom, standing alone in the black she chose to wear, unmoving in the midst of the rest of us; the guys in Haggar slacks and button-down short-sleeve shirts, the women in J.C. Penney skirts and long-sleeve blouses, In my reverie, we were talking about the usual: performance reviews; the cheap company toilet paper; whatever may have happened over the previous weekend, in no detail except it was fun. But with her standing there, everyone was even more self-conscious than usual, and seemed to bend their comments to her but not directly. Their words sounded tinnier than usual. She didn’t respond to anyone, just stood there not saying a word.

I think she, Monica, made us wonder about ourselves. Not just in this thought I had. At first, when she arrived at work, she didn’t say hello to anyone. When she left she didn’t say goodbye. When the weather was nice, she ate outside, alone. When the weather was bad, she ate in her cubicle. The smell of her dying food would fill the entire floor of fluorescent-lit, industrial-carpeted, drop-ceilinged work spaces with an odor that transgressed every principle of the Accounts Receivable Department of Johnson Industrial Bearings and Fittings. I wondered why she was there.

At first, there were times I wanted to stand up and lean over my computer monitor and the cubicle wall that separated us to see her face, to see what she was doing, to see what she looked like as she worked. I would never do that. I was certain that the look she would give me, looming idiotically, would be terrible. The idea of it unsettled my stomach. A few times I looked into her work station on my way to or from the watercooler or whatever. I saw her back, clothed in black usually, the back of her head, her straight black hair tinged Kool Aid blue. I saw her monitor, always projecting a spreadsheet in use. I saw her body move slightly as she entered data. I don’t remember anything in particular on her desk or pinned to her cubicle wall. The view of her and her workspace was unremarkable, maybe even disappointing. Maybe if Monica was like the rest of us, and I caught a glimpse of solitaire on her monitor, or an Instagram feed, or a quick flash of porn, I might have looked in on her more.

The only thing I could think to ask her was what was that god-forsaken thing she ate. And why. Obviously, that would be rude, and I could never imagine being clever enough to make a harmless joke about it, to make it into an opening to wider, deeper things, to use it to shed some light on her silent self or the dark pool she swam in. I could never do that. Maybe Jonesy could, he could talk like nobody in Accounts Receivable could. He could ask you about your grandmother and make you feel good that he asked. I once saw him leave Bennigan’s after work one night with a woman he had met when he went to use the bathroom, and she was pretty. I watched Jonesy and I could tell he wanted nothing to do with Monica. I think he’s the sort of guy who weighs the odds and the payoff all the time, and he didn’t like the odds or the payoff in striking up a conversation with Monica. I wish I was better at weighing the odds.

I think Jonesy figured Monica out all on his own. I doubt he listened to what Clarice and Donella had to say about her, because he never stayed around when they got going with their gossip. They said that Monica didn’t wear a bra, that she had a tattoo on the palm of her left hand, that she was the niece of Mr. Jenkins in Marketing, that she may have been kicked out of high school. I didn’t ask them how they knew all this because I didn’t want to seem interested, and I didn’t want the other guys to see me getting into gossip with a couple women.

Besides her lunch, I was intrigued by how she decided what to wear to work, and where she got her clothes. Like how did she decide to wear a sparkly pink party skirt with a black leather vest, torn black stockings and camouflage high tops? I had never seen anyone look like that, but maybe there are parts of Akron where people dress like that. Maybe she had friends who dressed like her. I couldn’t imagine anyone in Akron, or anyplace, acting the way she did, day in and day out for nearly the entire time she worked at Johnson; about two months. She always made what she was wearing look right, which I couldn’t understand.

I remember feeling miserable that day when things began to change with Monica. A storm was coming, one of those Ohio thunder storms that give me a massive headache as they approach. It was morning and I was standing in the Johnson Building lobby waiting for the elevator with my splitting headache, waiting for what seemed like forever. The elevator always seemed like it took forever, crawling like a sloth up and down its eight-story path. The stairs were nearby but I never took them because the damp, dimly lit cinderblock stairwell made me nauseous, especially on a humid day like that day. It always stunk of piss and vomit and rotting food and sweat and car exhaust and misery.

When my head feels like it’s going to explode like that, it seems best to look down, taking some of the pressure off my eyes. I was looking down when I felt there was someone beside me. I wouldn’t normally look up. Maybe it’s because I knew what she smelled like, or maybe I just knew it was her. She was standing beside me, looking straight ahead at the elevator door four feet away. Maybe it was the massive thundercloud building in my head, but I spoke to her. I work with you.

She looked down then up again at the elevator door. I didn’t care how stupid I must have sounded, but it didn’t seem right that she didn’t say anything, so I added, I’m in the cubicle on the other side of the divider from you. Did you know that?

She turned, looked me directly in the eyes with her stunning hazel eyes and said, Of course I do.

I was mesmerized by her eyes, her thick eyeliner, the sweep of her eyebrows, and kept speaking without thinking, Why don’t you talk to people? Why don’t you talk to anyone?

She turned back to face the elevator door. I crashed back to earth, not even knowing that I had lifted off. My headache pounded even worse. The elevator door opened. She stepped forward, I lagged a moment watched her move away, wearing what looked like a clear plastic bag over a faded black t-shirt, black jeans skirt, no leggings, no socks, camo high tops. She had skinny legs, nice legs. Before I got on the elevator, I blurted, I’m Ron.

As I got on she said, I know. And then she smiled, though it was a very small smile. She was wearing coral lip gloss. I knew it was coral because it looked a lot like the lip gloss my girlfriend Yolanda wore, and she’d told me it’s called coral. Monica and I didn’t say anything else the remainder of the elevator ride. I didn’t feel the need to say anything more, I had done plenty.

I entered the floor feeling light, my massive headache gone. The air conditioning helped, but I knew it was also Monica’s effect. I was distracted the rest of the morning. I had seen her eyes up close – hazel, with glints of light – and I couldn’t think of anything else. How could I fill in spreadsheets while recalling each and every word she had said to me? How could I get any work done if the lines of black that rimmed her eyes burned into my mind’s eye??

I wanted to stand up, lean over the cubicle divider, and see her look up at me with her black-rimmed, eyes. The thought of her reaction didn’t unsettle my stomach that morning. What did upset me was it was almost nine-thirty and I had not yet begun the overdue accounts report for the Minnesota-Wisconsin district. It was due by noon, along with all the other reports that everyone in the department was preparing for all of the dangerously overdue accounts in all of the Johnson Industrial Bearings and Fittings sales districts. With those reports the district managers would get their wake-up calls to get their frontline guys and their back-office guys on the case to get those lagging accounts current. I don’t know how much good all that effort did because the number of delinquent accounts and the dollar amounts of those delinquent accounts kept going up, except for northern Illinois, which includes Chicago of course.

I had to get my report done. I knew the vice presidents and their staffs would be analyzing mine, along with the rest, this afternoon before sending them off to the district managers. They’d go out tomorrow, two days after the end of the quarter, same as always for as long as I’ve worked here these past two years. When noon approached, I wasn’t close to done. If I worked through lunch I could hand it off to Donella by one, which would count as turning it in by noon because she’d be on lunch break anyway. My stomach churned at the thought of pushing the envelope like that but I didn’t have any choice. I didn’t have any choice because I’d spent half of the morning mooning over Monica. I was pissed, and entered data even faster.

Then, wham! The stench of her dying lunch assaulted me from the other side of the cubicle divide. Christ, it just had to be pouring outside, and she had to be inside eating that rancid mess. I tried to enter figures with a furious vengeance, but that didn’t work. I tried to ignore the reek but that didn’t work either because I couldn’t concentrate on sales figures when I was grabbed by the nose like that. So I stopped and really smelled the odor. I kind of liked it. There was a sweetness mixed in with the rot, and I picked out a muted tang of onion, all rolled into something that maybe a person could eat. Well, someone like Monica. Then I thought about the Hormel turkey and mayo sandwich that Yolanda had made me for lunch. She’d put it on rye, which I was starting to get used to. She said it was heart-healthy, better than the white bread I liked. She had also started packing baby carrots in my lunch instead of Oreos or chips. I don’t know, the only thing those baby carrots have in common with any carrots I’d ever known was that they were orange. They seem like some kind of mutants – we may be heart-healthy but what good does that do us when we have mutant carrot cells lining our intestines? So far I’ve thrown them out as soon as I got to work.

Donella was not pleased when I gave her the five copies of my report at 1:20. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t smile at me like she usually does when I hand my reports in. I went back to my work space, chastened. The guys weren’t back from Bennigan’s yet – that was the routine; hand in the quarterly reports and then have lunch at Bennigan’s whatever the weather. Even have a couple beers. Then everyone comes back and acts a little rowdy, spends a bunch of time in the breakroom, heads back to the cubicles and pretends to get some work done for like forty-five minutes before heading home. But here I was, alone with Monica and her stench.

Really annoyed, I asked from where I was sitting, What do you eat for lunch?

Lutefiske. She answered.

Like that meant anything, What’s that?

Fish soaked in lye.

Why do you eat it?

My grandmother’s Swedish. She has a lot of it.

My mind took off: the eyeliner, the black clothes, the tattooed hand, the Swedish relative. It all made sense, she was just like the girl in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, only she was in Akron which somehow made her that much more exotic. Have you been to Sweden?

When I was little, before my parents died.

Oh.

---

The elevator door swooshed open and the guys, led by Jonesy, poured onto the department floor. Lots of chatter but I heard Jonesy above the rest of it stage whisper, Smells like pussy, baaad pussy. Stifled laughs. I almost said, It’s lutefiske. but didn’t, thank God! Jonesy would have had me up on a cross. He ambled up to me, Ron, Rondo, where were you, big guy? You missed it, bro, Debbie was one button away from spilling the whole package, made wiping the bar a vision to behold. Too bad you missed it.

Yeah. I knew how Debbie liked to show off her great tits, and I would have loved to have seen it, but I’d bet Jonesy was making more of it than really happened just to get my goat. The guys headed off to the breakroom, leaving me stranded because they were on a roll that I wasn’t a part of. I could have gotten up and joined them but it didn’t feel right. And it didn’t feel right just sitting there.

That was really gross. Monica’s words launched over the divide. Her voice was nice, sort of smooth even though she sounded pissed. I guess I heard the sound of her voice because she caught me by surprise: I wasn’t thinking about what to say, or what she would say, or what I should say in response to what she said. I just heard what she sounded like.

Yeah, I guess. I responded.

Does she know what they say about her?

Yeah, probably.

Probably. Monica laced that word with sarcasm.

She, Monica, had agreed with something I said. I couldn’t think of the last time Yolanda agreed with something I had said. We’d been together almost five years, since we met at community college, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d agreed with anything I’d said. Not that she disagreed all the time, she just never agreed, never said, oh, that’s right, or yes, of course, or interesting, Ron. She was more like I should do this, that or the other thing all the time: leave my shoes at the door, trade in my car, remember my dentist appointment.

When Monica agreed with what I said, it was pleasant, like a sweet breeze coming across a field. Just then I thought for the first time; why was I still with Yolanda? She was never happy. She came home from her dental hygienist job unhappy, unhappy about the commute, unhappy about the microwave suppers we made, unhappy about her wardrobe, probably unhappy about our sex but she never said so outright. TV kind of made her happy; the Housewives of here or there, but they were all a bunch of unhappy women. I usually didn’t watch. I like sit-coms, but most of them are stupid, I know. Sometimes I laugh but I couldn’t really say I was happy.

Monica’s voice interrupted my thoughts, And that comment about pussy, the place smelling like pussy, what was that about?

It’s your lunch. It smells really bad.

Oh.

The oh sounded hurt. I felt bad but I felt good, too, because I had been straightforward. That hardly ever happened with Yolanda; everything had to be said just so. No, I had just said something just the way it needed to be said. Still I hoped Monica wasn’t hurt, so I added, Don’t you smell it?

I don’t. I’m used to it I guess.

Yeah, the rest of us aren’t used to it.

The guys streamed out of the breakroom, laughing. They headed for their work stations.

Thanks. she said, loud enough so people could hear. She had thanked me just for telling the truth like it was no big deal on the one hand and a really big deal on the other hand. Yolanda had never done that.

Sure. I answered, loud enough so the others could hear. I knew nothing would be the same after that. I caught myself smiling.

---

I left work before Monica. I think I always did because I don’t remember ever seeing her leave. Anyway, I made a point of passing by her cubicle on the way out and saying goodbye. She turned away from her monitor and said goodbye back, and smiled. Then she said, No more lutefiske. Promise. That was nice but it also made me sad. She didn’t have to do that. What if it was something important to her, or if it was all she could afford to eat, or was something special that her grandmother made just for her and she was giving it up because I had told her that a bunch of jerks didn’t like it? That wouldn’t be right. But I wouldn’t miss that stench.

I suggested, How about just inside.

She smiled and said okay. Her smile had a bit of a twist to it, playful maybe. I left.

---

I take the bus to work to keep the mileage down on my beater Scion and I usually just space out during the ride, watching Akron roll by but the ride home that day I couldn’t stop thinking about Monica, about her smile. I couldn’t get over the fact that she offered to give up her fish lunch just because I had said something. I couldn’t believe that we had reached an understanding that would work for everyone: no lutefiske inside. I don’t know if Yolanda and I had ever worked anything out like that, like so easily. Being together as long as we had, we must have, but I didn’t want to dredge for those memories. I wanted to look out the bus window and remember Monica’s skewed grin.

I got home first. I usually did. Yolanda liked to go to the gym after work, so she didn’t make it home until after six. I usually puttered around, read some stuff on the internet, like news stories. Something to kill the time. That day I was restless, I roamed the apartment. It was a small apartment, one bedroom. Yolanda and I talked about getting a bigger place. A while back we talked about maybe buying a house in the suburbs. We had talked about saving up for a house. I’d saved nearly ten thousand dollars. I don’t think too many twenty-four-year-olds could say that. I guess it’s because I don’t spend money on too many things. I don’t go out drinking like some guys I know, and my car is paid for. Yolanda and I would take a vacation every year, usually to Lake Superior in the summer, but I don’t think she really liked it. We went because her family has a place on the lake, and she got to see her sister. I didn’t mind; it was nice to get out of the city and I liked her sister’s husband. We played a lot of horseshoes, and at night we all played cards and got a little drunk. Yolanda’s sister has a speed boat and they rode around a lot but I usually passed because it made me awfully sick bouncing along that fast. Sometimes Bo, Yolanda’s brother-in-law, and I would go fishing in the early morning. I liked being on the water but I was always praying I didn’t catch anything, and I usually didn’t.

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Yolanda always said she wanted to go to Puerto Rico. She argued that would be a real vacation. She had family there, but she’d never met any of them. Her sister Trish went there with a cousin, and came back saying it was the best time she’d ever had, kept saying it over and over. I’m not so sure Bo liked hearing that. He’d kept his mouth shut when she was saying that in front of him, and that’s not like Bo. He usually has something to say about everything. Sometimes I think Bo feels like Trish is more than he can handle.

When Yolanda mentioned Puerto Rico, I’d say sure. I wonder if she ever looked into hotel rooms, and beaches and airfares? We could have afforded it, easily. I have no idea how much money she had saved: her car was paid for and she only spent money on her gym membership, and clothes, and when she went out with her friends once in a while. She also liked to spend money for presents for her nieces and nephews. She loved shopping for cute little things for them at the mall on Saturday afternoons. She used to show me the stuff she’d get and explain who it was for and why she had gotten it. I began taking walks when she’d go shopping. I’d see a lot of interesting people, buildings, neighborhoods, all kinds of stuff. There’s a lot more to Akron than most people realize, but that’s probably true about anywhere.

I took up walking because I’d be restless in the apartment alone, like I was that day Monica promised no more lutefiske inside. I walked around the apartment, looking at things like I would if I were out on the street. I saw things I don’t usually pay attention to. Like how the couch was getting a bit ratty looking, stained and frayed. We got it secondhand when we moved in together last year, but I didn’t remember it looking so worn out. I noticed how much clutter there was around my computer - Nutrigrain bar wrappers, balled up Kleenex and miniature dragon figures. I cleared away the trash and noticed how dusty everything was so I wiped at it with the cuff of my sleeve. I realized I did that a lot, wiped at things with the cuff of my sleeve. I wondered whether that annoyed Yolanda. It seemed like the sort of thing that would, like she used to tell me to throw the dishtowel in the wash after I dried the dishes because it was unsanitary to use it over.

I saw the book on the coffee table, along with a few issues of People magazine, a jar of nail polish remover and a package of Q-tips. I didn’t remember her reading a book, but clearly, she was, why else was it there? I felt bad: you’d think I would notice something like that. I stood in the living room, holding the book, a romance novel. I thought, what are we doing? I didn’t want to buy a house with her, and I don’t think she wanted that either. I didn’t want to go to Puerto Rico and meet her extended family, but I’m pretty sure she did. I didn’t want to go to Lake Superior with Trish and Bo. I didn’t want to watch television shows about desperate housewives. We’d been together for five years, living together this last year, and the only thing I could think I liked doing together was the sex, which was pretty regular. I put the book down and the slip of paper that marked her place fell out, flitted to the floor. I picked it up, a torn piece of envelope with a phone number on it. I had no idea what page it had been at. I decided I should put more effort into our relationship.

When Yolanda got home, before she headed for the shower, I planned on apologizing about losing her place. Then I’d ask her about the book; ask what it’s about, whether she liked it, why she did or didn’t like it. I thought I’d ask if she wanted to go out to dinner. Something special, not Applebee’s, our usual. I thought we’d go downtown and explore a bit, check out a place that looked inviting. I felt we deserved it. Spend a little, have some fun. I figured while we were exploring for a new restaurant, I’d tell her about the things I’d seen on my walks. She might find some of it as interesting as I did. Maybe we’d talk about exploring Akron together, get some exercise together. At a new restaurant, we could talk about the day we’d had.

Then Monica came to mind; her twisted smile, her eyeliner and her glinting hazel eyes. I couldn’t tell Yolanda about Monica in any way because she’d know right away that I found Monica attractive. That shouldn’t be wrong. Lots of people find lots of people attractive all the time and it’s no big deal. But it would be a big deal; if I mentioned Monica in any way, Yolanda wouldn’t like it at all. She’d accuse me of having a crush on Monica, and maybe she wouldn’t have been so wrong. My thoughts about dinner downtown blew away like smoke. I was sad because I really wanted that to happen and then it didn’t seem possible. I stood there holding the piece of envelope with the phone number when Yolanda came through the door.

Before she had a chance to say anything I blurted, Hey, how was your day?

Yolanda shrugged as she came toward me, You know, the same. I’m gonna take a shower.

That’s what she always said and I usually just go Mmhmmm. I was aware I was holding her place marker, I held it out in front of me, I’m sorry. It fell out. I don’t know…

Yolanda snapped, Where did you get that? What are you doing with that? She had stopped a few feet from me. The smell of her washed over me; her sweat and anti-perspirant and laundry soap, and something else.

I answered, It fell out. I was straightening up and it fell out of your book.

She glared at me, then snatched it away, I’m going to take my shower now. She brushed past me. That other smell rose above the rest, grabbed me. It was sexy. I wanted Yolanda then, Want company? I surprised myself with that. I was looking at her ass, and it looked really good. I was hard.

Yolanda turned around, looked at me with a wicked half smile, her dark brown eyes flickered, Sure, why not.

The sex in the shower was great, and so was the sex we had in bed after. Yolanda really went at me, and it felt like back at the beginning – a couple teenagers all over each other. I made us scrambled eggs and rye toast for dinner, which seemed like the right thing to do rather than microwaving a couple Lean Cuisines. During dinner I asked Yolanda about the book she was reading. She told me it was the story of a woman who works on some estate, being pursued by the wealthy owner who could promise her riches and social status, and by one of the other servants, who could promise her love. And a lot of kids. Yolanda added. Did she want kids? She was twenty-three, the only one of her siblings who didn’t have kids, and she wasn’t getting any younger. I told her the book sounded interesting, even though it didn’t. She must have known how it was going to end, so why bother reading it. I guess it’s about the fantasy. After dinner we didn’t turn on the television: She read her book, and I found a book I was reading a few weeks ago, under the bed, about the siege of Stalingrad, nonfiction. We read together on the couch, quietly. It was nice. It was different.

Chapter Two

Before we headed off to work the following day, I kissed Yolanda goodbye and said, See you tonight. I didn’t usually do either of those things.

It was raining hard, and windy. A perfectly miserable March day. On the way from the bus stop, two blocks away from the office building, the wind tore my umbrella inside out and twisted all the spokes. I threw it in the nearest trashcan and got soaked as I walked the remaining distance. I was standing at the elevator dripping wet, waiting for the door to open when I heard, No lutefiske today.

My heart swung open like a cage door. I looked beside me and there was Monica. The trash bag/ rain slicker didn’t appear to be working very well because the shoulders of her jeans jacket were deep wet blue. Her eyeliner smeared down her cheeks, and her blue Kool Aid dye ran down her trash bag/rain slicker.

She said, You’re soaked.

I laughed, You want to tell me you’re not?

She smiled more broadly, No.

I wanted to wipe the rain off her cheeks. I wanted to touch her face. I wanted to feel her smile. I didn’t. The elevator door opened and we got on with two other people. After the doors shut and we started to move, Monica said, This is ridiculous, I can’t sit in these soaking wet clothes all day. I’m going to call in sick, want to call in sick?

Her eyes shined. My guts jumped around like a squirrel and my mouth went ash dry. I couldn’t. How could I? These weren’t real questions and I didn’t have real answers like a squirrel wouldn’t be able to tell you why it jumps around like crazy. She was still looking at me, the elevator was still going up. The ash had claimed my throat. The elevator stopped.

I said Umm, I don’t know…

She said, Okay, don’t tell anyone you saw me.

With that I was out of the elevator. She gave me a small wave as the door closed. I waved back. The last I saw of her she put her index finger to her lips to signal Don’t tell. The door was closed before I could respond. I would have laughed at that last gesture if my stomach wasn’t spinning and my head wasn’t pounding. I think I was ashamed but I couldn’t say why. Something was, then wasn’t because of what I didn’t do. Something had made me feel like a song for a brief moment, it was nothing more real than that.

---

I was miserably wet. By mid-morning break I felt feverish and had the sniffles. I told Donella I was coming down sick and wanted to go home. She said sure, half the department was out sick. Back at the apartment, I took a long hot shower, drank a bottle of water and crawled into bed. I must have slept most of the day because the light was fading when I woke. It had been a fitful sleep. I kept feeling like I was all tangled and out of control. I’d wake up enough to notice that I was wrapped up in the sheets and sweating like crazy. By the time I came fully awake though, my fever had broken, and I was hard. I aroused myself to the memory of Yolanda’s wide rocking hips and swinging breasts, together with the vision of Monica’s black lined hazel eyes and coral-colored smile. I came like a freight train. What did I think I was doing jacking off while thinking about Yolanda and Monica at the same time? It wasn’t a crime but it felt like a problem.

I got up, cleaned myself off, and walked around the apartment in nothing but my bathrobe. I picked up Yolanda’s book and opened to the bookmark. The scrap of envelope had been replaced by a strip of paper napkin. Why did Yolanda replace it? Was she hiding the phone number? I took a breath; this was crazy thinking, probably my guilty mind playing havoc and pinning blame on Yolanda because I thought Monica was hot. I decided to read my Stalingrad book, with the idea of getting Monica out of my head. That didn’t work. Besides thinking about her eyes and smile and voice, I remembered that she had told me she hadn’t brought her stinky fish to work. That was so considerate. She had heard me. Even more than that, she had honored my request. You could say she had met my need. I thought, this is bad. I couldn’t be having thoughts like this and be living with Yolanda; how would that work?

I was stretched out on the couch, still in my bathrobe, mulling over this dilemma when I heard a key in the front door lock. Christ, I thought, who could that be? It couldn’t be much past five: Yolanda wouldn’t be home for another hour, and that’s if she didn’t go the gym, which she always did. I straightened up and grabbed an ashtray which I was prepared to throw right at the bastard’s head as soon as he showed his face. The door swung open and Yolanda came through the doorway.

Yah! I screamed, surprised. I almost… what are you doing home…what time is it?

Yolanda jumped back, What the hell are you doing here? What’s with the bathrobe? Cover yourself up, you’re hanging out.

I put the ashtray on the coffee table, gathered the robe.

She demanded, Were you gonna throw that at me?

Yeah, no, not you, I thought it was an intruder.

An intruder who unlocks the door? Still you didn’t tell me, what’s with you in your bathrobe?

I was sick. I came home from work. I feel better now.

Yolanda didn’t move, still just a couple feet in the apartment. She shuffled, looked down, said oddly, I didn’t think you’d be here. There was some stuff I wanted to get started on…

What stuff?

I wanted to start packing. Before you got home.

I didn’t understand. Why?

Yolanda took two more steps into the room, I’m leaving, Ron. Tonight. I’m gonna go stay with Trish and Bo.

Damnshitdamn. Everything went white, then came back and she was still standing there like she was waiting for me to make the next move. All I had was, Who?

She started for the bedroom and said, No, we’re not doing that. I’m just leaving.

She went into the bedroom. I sat there on the couch, seriously confused. How could she not say anything about leaving before that? How could she be so unhappy and not say anything? And what about that phone number? There’s a guy, and she’s unhappy or she’s bored, and so am I. But what about the good times? What about our future plans that we never really talked about? Weren’t we supposed to be talking stuff like this out? Wasn’t I allowed to know if she’d been cheating on me? Weren’t there rules for what was happening? Out of the blue I decided I better watch her and make sure she didn’t rip me off. If she could have secret phone numbers, long gym workouts, and sudden announcements that she was leaving me, then she was capable of taking stuff that wasn’t hers, although I wasn’t sure what that really meant in practical terms. I went into the bedroom.

Yolanda stood at her chest of drawers, throwing stuff into an open suitcase on the bed. I stood at the doorway, it didn’t feel like there was room in there for the two of us. She didn’t slow down, she opened the next drawer.

I said, So, you coming back?

She stopped, answered, No.

Why not? You don’t say anything to me and then tell me you’re leaving, how do you know you’re not coming back?

She turned to look at me, I know because it’s over. We’re done.

How do you know?

Ron, if you weren’t such a loser, you’d know too. I’m not about to get into it with you. You can figure it out for yourself. You’re a big boy.

I almost said fuck you! I just stood there.

She went back to emptying the drawer. Then she snapped, I want to be left alone.

I looked around the room, there wasn’t anything of mine worth stealing. I asked, So you’re leaving tonight and I never see you again, is that it?

I’ll be back tomorrow to get the rest of my stuff.

What stuff?

My dresser, the coffee table, the couch, the microwave, the TV, the bed…

Was she kidding? Hey, half that stuff’s mine, I paid for most of it!

Yeah, well I’m taking it unless you want to buy it back from me.

I stormed out of the room, stormed around the apartment, found myself taking inventory. Five minutes later I went to her, in the bathroom, where she was clearing out the medicine cabinet shelves of her personal care products. I announced, You can have the television. I’ll take the microwave and the coffeemaker. You can have the coffee table, I’ll take the computer table. You take the towels, I’ll keep the dishes and the pots and pans. You can have the silverware, I’ll take the knives and utensils. I don’t want the couch, it’s disgusting, and so’s the chair. I’ll keep the kitchen table and chairs and the bed, and give you five hundred bucks.

A thousand.

There’s no way that stuff is worth a thousand! My voice was shrill.

She was just a couple feet away, the bathroom being very small, and I could see her eyes flash like she was going to fuck me up, Fine. I’ll take the bed and kitchen set and give you nothing. And the pots and pans. You try and stop me. Or better yet, you try and stop Bo and Derek. Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

Who was Derek? Seven hundred.

Nine hundred, and be thankful.

I wasn’t thankful. Eight hundred.

Nine hundred. Cash. Tomorrow. Or I clear this fucking place out except that filthy couch.

I left to sit at the kitchen table. That was my way of saying I gave up, and she knew it. Five minutes later she left the apartment.

At the door she said, Tomorrow, five-thirty.

I didn’t say anything. I’d never seen her be so mean, but somehow I wasn’t surprised. That nasty had been there all along but she’d been too bored to whip it out. She wasn’t bored now. She was gone.

---

The apartment was quiet. I felt like it was the first time I’d ever been alone. Me and Yolanda had been together for what seemed like forever. That forever was over. It was like an enormous hole surrounded me. I sat at the kitchen table, and there was nothing to see. Just a lot of nothing. Thoughts crept back in, mostly confusion, as I could not figure out how this had happened, and how it happened so fast. There must be some kind of rules: you don’t just walk in, say you’re leaving and walk away with your things, never to be seen again. We should have had a fight, right? Yelling and screaming terrible things at each other. Well, maybe not. At least I’m glad it didn’t happen that way. She was nasty about our stuff, though. Maybe we were supposed to say hurtful things and feel a lot of pain, but I didn’t really feel that much pain, just numb and alone at the bottom of a hole. I should have been pissed off about this guy Derek, but I wasn’t. I should have known. I’ll bet there were signs I missed. But hey, she fucked me the night before. Twice! What the hell was that about? That pissed me off because she knew she was leaving. Was that a mercy fuck? Or a fuck-up-your-head fuck? I remembered the look in her eyes when she said Let’s do it, and the look in her eyes when we were going at it. They were wicked, which had really turned me on, like she was daring me to keep fucking her. It was great even if it was weird. I thought that morning that we could really be getting something going, remembering that look in her eyes. But that afternoon her eyes showed that same dangerous intensity. Instead of saying Fuck me, they were saying Fuck you! Then, sitting at the kitchen table, I thought of Monica’s eyes smiling as the elevator door closed and she held her finger to her lips. Then I didn’t feel like I was at the bottom of a hole, I felt like I was floating over the hole. I wasn’t confused, I was free.

Chapter Three

Ihad a hunch I should stay home from work the next day – Yolanda’s wicked eyes told me I better be careful. I was right. I lounged around in bed that morning, feeling sorry for myself and free at the same time. I thought about some of the good times Yolanda and I had had, and about a lot of the boring times, too. I thought about Monica’s slightly twisted smile and her dancing eyes. I thought about what it would be like to spend time with her. I wondered if she rode a bike. I imagined her riding a bike through town, car horns blaring at her but she wouldn’t care, her straight black hair flying behind her.

I got up eventually, like after nine o’clock. I showered, ate a small bowl of Cheerios and raisins, made some coffee, took my time. I got dressed and roamed around the apartment, sort of saying goodbye to things that were leaving. It felt like a tide inside me was going out. I was surprised by the tears running down my cheeks. Five years together, for better and worse, had filled me up. The plug pulled, the tide was going out. Completely drained, I went back to bed, fully clothed. I fell asleep immediately.

I woke to the sound of a key in the lock but this time I wasn’t alarmed. I was half- expecting Yolanda. It was the noon hour and she was at the apartment on her lunch break. What did surprise me was the man who came through the door with her – a really fake-looking guy with a razor cut hairstyle and chin stubble. He clearly worked out, with his muscled shoulders and chest and biceps. His tight workout shirt was tucked neatly into his black nylon workout pants. He wore spotless running shoes. He must be Derek. I wondered if he was good at sex. It didn’t matter; sex is always good at the beginning, when everyone wants it so badly. And Yolanda must have wanted it badly. She was so horny with the new sex that she had done me, twice. I guess I should have thanked Derek – nah, just kidding.

I stood in the bedroom doorway. Yolanda and Derek stood a couple feet inside the apartment. Yolanda said, This is Derek. Derek, Ron.

The guy nodded. He had a serious look on his face like he was going to say something profound or break into a martial arts pose. I hoped for the martial arts pose. I thought maybe if I flinched at him dangerously, he’d strike a pose. Instead I said, I figured. Which was pretty cool. He didn’t say anything, just kept his ninja/philosopher face on. I’ll bet he thought he had a good look working and didn’t want to mess with his effect. He probably always thinks about his effect. He was my exact opposite. I’ll bet he’s a complete douche.

Yolanda demanded, What are you doing here? Just like the night before, but more irritated than surprised.

I’m still not feeling good. Which was the truth, sort of. Then it was my turn, And you? Why are you here in the middle of the day? With… I thought I’d bust his balls a bit by acting like I forgot his name.

Yeah, well you’re fully dressed. I don’t believe you.

I felt like saying, Fuck you! Who are you to doubt me when I tell you how I’m feeling? Instead I said, Well I am.

She headed to the kitchen, I don’t have much time tonight, so I wanted to get some things packed up and out of here now. She pulled a couple cardboard boxes out of the pantry and said to Derek, Honey, would you take these?"

She held the boxes out and Douche Boy strode, yes strode, over. I watched him from behind – his ass was so crazy tight I knew for sure he was a lousy fuck. I went to the kitchen when I heard her open one of the cabinet drawers – yeah she had planned on clearing the place out. There was no fucking way!

I challenged her. You want to tell me what you’re doing?

She ignored me. Derek the Douche was between us in the kitchen. Yolanda, a couple feet beyond him, turned and glared at me, Taking my stuff.

The fuck she was! No that wasn’t the deal we made last night.

What deal? She sneered.

I get the kitchen stuff, it’s part of what I’m getting for that nine hundred I’m giving you. She looked like she was going to throw some abuse at me so I cut her off, Maybe you don’t remember. Maybe we should write something up, spell some things out. I was snarling. Douche Boy puffed his chest a bit, drew his shoulders back. I was foul enough I felt I could fuck him up. Serious juice was flowing through me: make a move you sorry, tight-assed shit. Back to Yolanda, Because I don’t want to tear up that check if I find you’re walking out with more than we agreed to. So let’s get straight now and avoid a lot of ugliness later. Did I really say that? I did, and it worked because Yolanda kind of mumbled sure and we sat down and hammered out the details. I was pleased with how it played out: I refused on a couple of her demands, gave in on a couple, and moved the price down to eight hundred. Douche Boy waited the twenty minutes it took us to square things away. We actually had moved along at a pretty quick clip, but when I saw him sitting there on the couch flipping through one People’s magazine after another, I dragged things out a bit, and a bit more; just being a jerk.

---

I was smart to have had the super change the locks before Yolanda returned that afternoon. I was smart to ask that he stick around the apartment with me. I didn’t say in case there’s trouble, I didn’t have to. He’d been around this block plenty of times before: the splitting-up-couple-with-one-staying-and-the-other-clearing-out-their-stuff block, where nobody is on good behavior. I figured it could get nasty even though Yolanda and I had drawn up that list. Sure she was cool when she had left but I imagined her getting all fired up, with Derek the Douche feeding the flames. That’s what dickhead new boyfriends do when they’re trying to impress their ladies. Or maybe her sister Trish would get Yolanda worked up, yammering away on the phone about what she should walk away with, and Yolanda get seething mad and all pumped up to serve some justice on me. Yeah, I could just see Bo and Derek showing up flexing and all set to go alpha male all over me. Hell, and Yolanda would have loved it, too. Some sweet revenge for all those insanely boring nights. So, I had a pretty good idea what might be coming, and I was right.

I invited the super, Manny, to have a glass of lemonade after he changed the locks. I told him that Yolanda and her new boyfriend and another guy would be by soon to pick up her stuff, and asked would he mind sticking around. He said sure. We sat at the kitchen table, which would soon be exclusively mine, drinking powdered lemonade and making small talk about nothing much except the building, which was all we had in common. We heard a key at the lock. We both turned to the front door. I heard Yolanda bark. What the fuck!

Manny and I looked at each other: Show Time!

It’s open! I yelled without getting up.

The door swung open and Yolanda marched into the apartment first, with Douche Boy and Bo-Dickulous right behind her. She stopped quickly, three steps in, and her pissed-off face went blank when she saw me and Manny sitting there casual and relaxed. Dip and Shit plowed into each other trying not to run into Yolanda’s back. They bumped their way to either side of her and the three of them stood abreast gaping at me and Manny with our Country Time lemonade. I almost laughed out loud, they looked so comical, but I didn’t and I’m glad I didn’t because all bets then would have been off having this matter proceed peacefully.

I said Hey. to the three of them. Hey, Bo. to Bo. Which was cool of me: it got Bo less grimacey, kind of off-guard.

He shuffled, mumbled, Hey, Ron.

I could tell he wanted to say more, maybe something like, Sorry, man. but he caught himself, probably remembering that, at the end of the day, he had to answer to Yolanda’s sister.

Yolanda wasn’t appreciating the tender awkwardness at all. She stood there scowling back and forth at me and Bo. She jumped in and accused me, You changed the locks!

Yeah, Manny just finished.

Manny served up his official politeness, Hi, Yolanda. Ron here says you’re moving out. You got any security deposit we need to take care of?

To my amazement she said, No, he paid it.

That was it! The Battle of the Property Division was surely in the can! It was just a matter of mopping up the details. Get ‘er done!

She, Derek and Bo quietly moved her stuff out. There were a few things we had overlooked in our agreement earlier that afternoon, like the cookbooks we never used. I graciously let her have them. I wondered, did Trish cook? I pondered two Ramirez women under the same roof. I watched Bo effortlessly lug the coffee table across the living room and thought: you are so fucked, dude. I watched Douche Boy gather up Yolanda’s magazines with his purposeful-effect look (did he ever give it a rest?) and I imagined him trying to convince her to eat Power Bars and drink foul green smoothies. That was never going to happen. I gave them two months, max, until they were all fucked out, and completely sick of each other. She wasn’t going to waste too much time on this guy, not after wasting so many years on me.

Then, out of the blue, sitting at my kitchen table alone – Manny had left – I thought of Monica, her wry smile and her sparking eyes and I lifted above all the crap.

Chapter Four

The next day, I was ready to get up, get out, and go to work. I had Monica to look forward to. The radio alarm went off: You’re invincible now, you have no secrets to conceal. How does it feel, to be on your own… I hit the alarm button. I hoped I wouldn’t have Dylan’s nasal twang in my head all day. I hoped I could come up with a different song soon, anything.

It was pretty ridiculous, how good I felt – going to work, for God’s sake. As I waited for the elevator door to open, I wished Monica would come up beside me, like she had two days earlier. Had it just been two days? It felt like two eternities. There I was, waiting. Monica didn’t join me for the elevator ride. When I got to my workspace, I immediately looked over the divider into her cubicle: no Monica! I had to sit down.

I heard the elevator bell ring, and rolled my chair back to look in that direction. The door opened and there she was! She got off and she was laughing. I couldn’t tell at first who she was laughing with, but then a second person got off the elevator: Jonesy! With his Zac Efron good looks he could talk any woman out of her clothes in the time it took to reach the third floor on an elevator. Monica was still smiling and looking over her shoulder at Jonesy as he headed toward his work station. It looked like she said something to him but I couldn’t hear. I rolled back into my cubicle before she turned