Page 2 of Turning Back

I do go to work on time on Tuesdays. Show up at nine, go to lunch with Chella at one. Go home at six.

And the rest of the week I’m fine. It’s just Mondays and Tuesdays that threaten to kill me. I go out with Robert, my senior account manager down at Foster Consulting, on Friday nights after work. Just drinks at whatever local club is popular. I check out the women. Might flirt with one. But I don’t take them home. I don’t do anything with them because every woman I meet is immediately compared to Rochelle.

They have short hair. It’s too dark. They’re too serious. Not tall enough. Too tall. Too thin. Too thick. Not shapely. Wrong clothes. Bad conversation. Etc. Etc. Etc.

On Saturdays, I work out in the building gym. Three or four hours at least.

On Sundays I run. Coors Field has a running club. You join and they let you into the stadium Sunday mornings at five AM to run the steps.

And then it starts all over again.

Monday with Smith.

Tuesday with Chella.

Get through the week at work.

Friday night drinks with Robert.

Saturdays at the gym.

Run the steps on Sunday.

And pretty soon a year goes by. One year since the woman I loved left me with no explanation. One year since I was happy.

Like I said. Once upon a time, a long time ago.

I am existing and nothing more.

My front door beeps when Smith enters his key, and then he pushes the door open.

I don’t even bother turning away from the window.

“What’s up, asshole?” Smith says, dropping a bag on the floor as he enters. “You going to work today?”

I listen as he rummages through whatever take-out bag he brought with him and appreciate the scent of coffee.

“You know what today is?” I ask, still staring out at the weather. It’s gonna rain today. Last year it was snowing. But it doesn’t usually snow so much in late November, so this year we’re back to normal with the rain.

“Yeah.” Smith sighs, banging a drawer closed in the open kitchen. “I know. But you’re going to work today, right?”

I should go to work. What the fuck good would it do me to stay home? “I have a meeting this afternoon. So probably.”

Smith walks up to me holding a paper coffee cup. I take it, mumble, “Thanks,” and sip the hot liquid.

“I got you the best breakfast burrito from one of the new trucks down near Cheeseman Park,” Smith says. “You gotta taste this shit.”

“Thanks,” I say again, meaning it. I walk over to the kitchen island and grab the one that says ‘Quin’ on the silver-foil wrapper. Open it up. Take the mandatory bite.

“So listen,” Smith says.

But that’s when I notice the rat peeking its head out of Smith’s… gym bag? Sitting on the floor near the couch. “What the fuck is that?”

“What? Oh, the dog.”

“That’s not a dog. It’s a rat.”

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “So you know Chella said I could get a dog, remember? Last year she gave me that gift and part of it was a puppy?”