A mostly fictional short story based on real relationship dynamics and observations.
By: Kat Mangan
She glances at her watch, and then at the digital clock that sits below her tv screen. The electric green numbers assure her that it is, in fact, 11:59; he has yet to arrive. She sits up promptly and breathes deeply three times as she read somewhere that this should, somehow, calm her racing mind. The ugliest possibilities plague her thoughts, and the unsettled state of her mind carries on through her body. Pushing herself off the bed from his side, she realizes that she cannot bear to lose another night of sleep. She works in the morning.
Her bare feet glide with purpose towards the vanilla scented candle that is blown out before it can prepare. Is this where it’s going? She pulls the fridge door towards her side for the twentieth time in the last two hours. She is not hungry. When 12:00 strikes, she is taking a sip of cold tap water and remembering that nowhere, but New York City, can water taste so good coming from an apartment’s faucet. He told her that. She didn’t believe him at first because California’s seemed unbeatable. He’s usually right. Or she usually lets him walk away thinking he is because she always felt wrong growing up.
With the glass still half full, she slowly empties the remnants into the drain with accuracy. Her landline rings, and she wonders why she still pays for it. Nobody ever calls. It’s her boss, letting her know that she won’t be needed at work tomorrow due to a scheduling mishap. Her coworker will take her place and she will have the day off. She replaces the phone to it’s hook with indifference and latches onto the sides of the counter, straining her forearms. Is this the cycle of things? Her gaze finds the fridge, as she continues to cling onto the counter, and looks it up and down with attraction. Without much hesitation, she takes two brief strides to its temptation, and pours red wine into one of her many glasses. As she takes her first sip, she targets the couch in the living room. Thirty more minutes.
Her right leg is bent beneath her bottom, as her left foot closely hovers over the hardwood. She hears the double-locked door open and breathes a sigh of relief. He’s home. They make brief eye contact, but he quickly disengages and drops his duffle bag on the floor, next to the counter. “So?” She asks, with childlike impatience, “It went well,” he responds, turning around and flipping on the flow of water from the kitchen faucet. With a single pump of dish-washing liquid, he begins to lather his hands, “I think they really liked me.” “Surprising.” She utters, masked by a nearly silent laugh.
He drops his balled-up piece of paper towel into the temporarily open trash bin, which closes when he removes his foot from the lever. Loosening his tie and removing his belt, he moves towards her and plops down on the seat adjacent. With the belt still in his hand, he leans his head onto her shoulder, and she expectedly begins to stroke through his curly, jet-black hair. His eyes begin to glaze, and his lids close in comfort. She smiles. “Benny,” she whispers, “I am so proud of you.”