Marculations

This is part four. Read part three.

John sat on the edge of his bed, nursing a beer. He had stopped and picked up a twelve pack on the way home from work, as a sort of celebration. A factual timeline would show that tonight was the second anniversary of his moving to New York City. On a lonely Thursday night, however, John tended to focus on other things.

He could still hear the sounds of her sobbing.

They laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was mostly empty, with assorted boxes stacked against one wall, and red, numbered stickers on all of the furniture. He could feel her roll over to face him, and he sensed that something was wrong. Fear kept him from looking at her.

“Please.”

His entire body tensed. “Please what?”

“Please take me with you.” Her voice cracked noticeably. He felt as if she was barely holding herself together. He tried to distance himself from the moment. The kitchen. He wondered if he had finished filling out the inventory for all of the kitchen stuff. The movers were coming tomorrow, first thing, and if he hadn’t finished–

“Are you even listening to me?”

He sighed and adjusted his position on the bed. Her face briefly came into his field of view. He could see the tears welling in her eyes. He remained quiet, and unwilling to compromise. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t deal with this situation. She was being foolish and stupid, which was so typical for her. Only thinking of her emotions, and what she felt like she wanted, rather than doing what was logical, or what made sense. She was completely ignoring everything that they’d discussed, and the decisions they had made together. Not only that, but she was being incredibly selfish. She knew what he wanted, and he knew that. She knew he knew. Why was she being like this? He hoped it was only temporary. A last minute lapse of judgement that would quickly be tempered by reason. For the most part, she was an intelligent and responsible woman, even if a little immature at times. She’s probably working through the last few issues right now, he thought, right at this very moment. And in a minute or two, she’ll be fine.

Her last emotional barrier crumbled. It was as if a higher power had suddenly robbed her of her sanity. Tears began running down her face. She sobbed uncontrollably. Her body heaved with each gasping breath she took. He did not see any of this. He couldn’t bear to face her. In his mind, he could imagine what she must look like. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to shake the image loose from his head. Her sniffling only served to irritate him. He could feel his resolve slipping away. If this kept up, he would crack. He would roll over, and see her laying there, helpless and alone. A strong, independent woman, laid bare a helpless child. He would have to comfort her. Only a monster could remain emotionless in that sort of a situation. He opened his mouth slowly, his chapped lips cracking apart painfully.

“I’m going to go double check the kitchen.”

The sounds of sobbing had quieted. He felt her roll over, but did not look to see how she was arranging herself. He rolled off of the bed and stood up, then walked out of the room, moving slowly and purposefully towards the kitchen.

As he dug through boxes of pots and pans, mulling over a checklist and trying not to think about much else, he heard the front door of his apartment tear open, then slam shut. She had left.

Tonight was the second anniversary of the last time he’d ever spoken with her. Usually, he could go an entire night without recalling the details of that incident. Once, he’d even gone as long as two weeks. Lately, though, he relived it daily. Hourly. In the span of a moment, his mind meticulously replayed each word, each sound, each sob, with crystal clarity. Each time, the motivations for his decision became muddier. And each time, his feelings of remorse and regret were amplified.

Through his closed bedroom door, he heard Joey come into the apartment. John froze. Every muscle in his body tensed. He listened intently. Several seconds passed. Each one felt like an eternity. After twelve to fifteen lifetimes, he heard Tiffany’s voice. He relaxed, and let out a sigh. She was in the apartment. He hadn’t seen her since their dinner. Hurriedly, he leapt to his feet and put his beer down on his desk. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why would he do that? She was just a friend. He just wanted to make sure it wasn’t all sticking up, he assured himself. He gave it one last run-through just to be sure, then straightened out his shirt and fixed his collar. He strode across the room to his door and reached his hand out towards the knob.

He heard Joey’s door shut.

They had gone into his room.

John’s hand fell to his side. He looked around the room, as his brain struggled to come up with an excuse to be standing in front of the door. It failed to think of one in time to stop the embarrassment.

John picked his beer back up from the desk, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

Read part five.

This is part three. Read part two.

“Hello? John?” Curtis put his pen down on John’s desk and gestured emphatically at him in a last ditch effort to get his attention. Finally, John turned in his chair and looked at him.

“Yeah, yeah Curtis, what’s up?”

“I said, are you finished with yesterdays progstat?”

The ‘progstat.’ Shivers shot up John’s spine at the mere mention. The ‘progstat’ was the latest in a series of ‘effectiveness measurement devices’ thought up by the newly installed manager of their department. The goal of the ‘progstat’, or ‘Daily Progress and Status Update’, which the form proudly announced itself as, was to measure the performance of each employee with such excruciating detail that said employee would become frustrated and quit, thus saving the company money and keeping them from having to lay anybody off.

Thus far, John had managed to keep up with three successive changes to the ‘progstat procedures’, each of which was more inclined to induce dementia than the previous incarnation. At this point, he struggled to remember what he actually did for this company besides report on his progress. In fact, merely filling out the progstat was becoming worthy of a mention on the progstat.

He lethargically reached into his filing box and pulled out a stapled two-page report, laying it out on the desk.

“Here it is, all stamped and stapled and ready to never be looked at.”

“Now John, that’s not the right attitude to have. You know very well that Mr. Davies carefully looks over each progstat to assemble the keydefs at the end of each week.”

Sweet lord. The ‘keydefs’, or ‘Key Deficiencies Report’, was yet another of the new torturous instruments management was using to prune the herd in this department. John paused and strained to determine at what point in his life he became a character in a George Orwell novel.

Curtis took the report into the stack he was carrying and trotted off, presumably to go brown-nose. John turned his gaze to his computer monitor. He studied the contents of the screen intently. The language appeared foreign to him. All at once, he could not remember what he was doing, the name of the company he worked for, or the hair color of his ninth grade geography teacher. His mind drained out as his eyes became fixed on a single word. Every synapse in his brain became completely dedicated to that word. As his focus intensified, he began deconstructing the individual letters that made up the word. And then, the bits that made up each letter. Time stretched on to infinity. Civilizations rose and fell inside the middle of an A.

“Woops, forgot my pen.”

Curtis’ voice sliced through John’s focus like a fine blade, and his existential journey through the alphabet was cut tragically short. Curtis snatched the pen off of the desk, lingering only for a moment before darting out of the cubicle.

John sighed, and scratched the back of his neck, irritating his mosquito bite and sending a sharp pain down his body. All he could think of now was getting home. Of course, he knew that as soon as he got home, all he would think of was going back to work.

Read part four.

This is part two. Read part one.

John tossed his keys on the end table and slammed the door behind him. Four hours. He was at that restaurant for four hours. Unimaginable. He lingered in the entryway, glancing around the apartment. No lights on. No sounds of television. Okay. It’s safe. He sighed and meandered lazily towards his room.

“Hey fucker, you kept her out pretty late don’t ya think?”

It’s not safe.

“Oh, yeah, well more like the other way around. She can talk, huh?” John scratched the back of his neck, his fingers gingerly working around a fresh mosquito bite.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Joey climbed up off of the couch and took his headphones off.

“Laying in the dark listening to music. That’s really emo of you.”

“Yeah.” Joey briskly walked past and went into his room, shutting the door behind him. John was left alone in the inky blackness. He let the evening roll around in his mind, including what had just happened. Was Joey really jealous? He had no reason to be, as far as he knew. Or did he know? No. He didn’t know anything. He’s clueless. There’s nothing to know. Who knows anything?

John felt a drop of sweat forming on his forehead. All this denial was stressing him, he thought. What denial, though? Honestly, there’s nothing to deny. He went out with a friend and had some dinner. They ate, they chatted awkwardly, they split the last breadstick, and then they parted ways. He hadn’t walked her to her car. The fact that they arrived separately was proof enough, wasn’t it? He didn’t take her out to the parking lot and press her against the side of her car or anything. There was no hug, not even a “friend hug.” No nervous laughter followed by awkward silence. No leaning in to–

“What the fuck are you doing, just standing around in the dark?” The lights in the living room clicked on, destroying John’s night vision. He snapped back to reality.

Joey stood in the hallway, staring incredulously.

“Sorry, I spaced out.” John rubbed his eyes, and tried to focus on something.

“Get your shoes on. Let’s grab some food, I’m fuckin’ starving.”

“I just got home from dinner! What time is it, like eleven?”

“At least ride over there with me, shit.”

“I’m gonna sit this one out, man.”

“Whatever.” Joey swept past him and headed out the door, leaving him alone again. It was way off base for him to pass up a chance to get out of the house. That was suspicious. He should be more careful.

Wait.

Why should he be more careful? It’s not like he’s under investigation for a murder. It was just dinner. There’s nothing going on. If he kept dwelling for so long on every dinner he had, he’d drive himself crazy. Of course, if he were crazy, maybe his life would be interesting enough to not have to dwell on dinner with a friend.

He finally got himself mobile, and headed towards his bedroom. A long, sleepness night of dwelling awaited him.

Read part three.