The food arrives quickly. I pick up a taco. I put it back on my plate. I pick it up again. I take a bite. The char on the al pastor is okay. The tortilla is hand-patted, but doesn’t have much flavor.
"All right. What's going on with you two?"
I look up and see Thompson staring at me. "Excuse me?"
"You." He points at me. "Haven't rated a restaurant in two weeks. Haven't complained about the coffee since before break. Haven't given anybody an unsolicited opinion since Tuesday, which might be a first in recorded history." The finger swings to Marchetti. "And you haven't said more than six words at a time since last week. You didn't sing in the hallway once today. I counted."
"I don't sing in the hallway," Marchetti says.
"You absolutely sing in the hallway. Every day. Multiple times. You sang a Barenaked Ladies song on the Columbus road trip so loud Coach heard it from the front row."
Hájek nods. "Yes. I see this too. Both of you are different."
"I'm fine, Thompson." I am not doing this here.
"You're not fine. And he's not fine." Thompson looks between us. "I don't need to know what's going on. I'm not asking for details. I'm telling you that the two loudest guys in that buildinghave been walking around like someone died and the rest of us can see it."
I stand up. The chair scrapes against the tile and the sound cuts through everything.
"This is bullshit."
I grab my jacket and leave the restaurant. The parking lot is warm. Late light flat across the pavement. I walk to my car. I get in. I sit with my hands on the wheel and the engine off and Thompson's words sitting in the car with me.
Like someone died. He was not wrong. He does not know how right he was and he will never know because I will never tell any of them. I wouldn’t have had to explain why I can’t eat if any of them knew about Wes.
The apartment opens onto dark. I don't turn on the light in the kitchen, just the one over the stove. The mail is on the counter piling up since Aruba. The dishes are in the sink not in the rack. The suit from last week is on the bathroom floor. The apartment is the shape of what happens when every system stops and the only one left is the one that feeds the cat.
Mouse is on the bed. She lifts her head. Her eyes are gold in the dark.
"Hey, Maus."
She meows. The short incessant one. Food.
I walk to the kitchen. The bag is in the cabinet. The food goes into the bowl. She jumps down and walks to it and eats with the focus of a creature who has never once questioned whether she deserves to be fed.
The bowl is full. The apartment is falling apart around it. Thompson is going to call tomorrow. Or Marchetti. Or both. They are going to ask again because they saw it tonight. I know they saw it.
I sit on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinet. Mouse finishes eating and walks to me and pushes her head intomy hand. My fingers find the spot behind her ear. She purrs. The sound fills the dark kitchen. Her bowl is full and the purring steady. It is the only thing in this apartment that is still working the way it is supposed to.
***
I fell asleep on the bed at some point, still dressed, one shoe on. Mouse is on the pillow next to mine. Her eyes open when I move. Gold in the gray light.
"Hey, Maus."
She stretches. One paw extends, toes spread, then pulls back in.
I shower. The water is too hot and I let it stay too hot because adjusting it would require a decision and the decisions I am making today start and end with getting to the building. I brush my teeth. I put on clothes.
The book is on the counter. The hockey romance book I started reading with the book club.
It has been on the counter since before Aruba. The paperback with the creased spine and the corner folded down on a page I stopped being able to read before Aruba. I can’t read a love story when mine doesn’t feel much like one. I have been carrying it in my bag and on my nightstand and in hotel room suitcases and never finishing it because it reminds me of what I don’t have.
I pick it up and put it in my bag. Mouse jumps down and walks to the kitchen. I fill her bowl. The food hits the ceramic. I pick up my bag and leave.
I pull into my parking spot and sit with the engine off. My hands on the wheel. The same posture as yesterday and the day before and every morning since the storage room.
I get out. I pull my bag from the backseat. I unzip the side pocket and take the book out. The cover is soft from handling. I hold it for a few seconds.
