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Then I glance at the clock and realize it’s my next one-on-one. Time flows far too quickly when my woman’s involved.
I have to go, I text.But we’ll talk later.
* * *
“You seem distracted,” Mary says, stirring her coffee.
I’ve been looking around the cafeteria.
I know Della went home. I know there’s no chance I’ll see her, but I still keep hoping she’ll somehow appear.
I’ll look up and, like magic, she’ll be there.
Then I’ll rush over and pull her into my arms, not caring that the teachers can see the students, anybody.
“Maybe a little,” I reply after a pause.
Della texted me when she got home, but I hadn’t heard anything in a few hours. After everything we talked about, it’s got my mind spinning. I feel like I’m speculating on a particularly chaotic stock with no notion of whether it will rise or fall.
Is Della alone, thinking of a way to tell me softly but firmly that we have to stop?
“Care to share?” Mary asks.
I shrug. “It’s a personal thing.”
Mary’s eyebrows shoot up. “A personal thing?”
“What’s so shocking about that?”
“We’ve worked together for four years, and this is the first time I’m hearing about a personal life.”
I laugh gruffly. We’ve talked about my hobbies, trips with friends, and stock work. But she’s right.
We don’t discuss real personal matters.
“I can’t explain it,” I tell her. “If the wrong person found it, I’d be gone.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s made me far more curious. I can’t imagine you’ve done anything wrong.”
“It depends on how you definewrong.”
I take a sip of my black coffee, letting the caffeine rush around my body. It jolts me alert, vignettes coming to me from nowhere, of all the ways I’d protect my woman, my Della, the words I’d use to keep her safe, the violence I’d employ if that’s what it took.
It’s like all this energy is crackling inside of me, bursting for a release.
“Unless it’s something immoral, Elias, I wouldn’t tell anybody. And I can’t imagine you doing anything like that.”
“Again, it depends on how you define the word.”
She crosses her chest. “I won’t tell a soul.”
I grit my teeth, waiting for my phone to vibrate in my pocket. I’ve never wanted a text so badly, never thought Icouldbe in a place like that.
Where is she? What is she doing?
Is she okay?
That’s my main concern, though I know it’s probably pointless. She’s busy, maybe working, maybe studying. She doesn’t owe me constant communication.
