TWO

Alex awoke with a churning stomach. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself down. Light peered through the blind-slats and into the dim room. The sun had already arisen; he couldn’t remember the last time he dragged himself out of bed before the sun stood at its peak; he habitually sank into the covers shortly before it reared over the horizon.

Alex groaned and rolled to Charlotte’s side of the bed, finding it empty. He smoothed his hand over the cotton sheets—they felt cold under his palm.

In his youth, it was strange for him to wake up next to a woman. In high school romances were short—passionate. Oftentimes relationships revolved around opportunities of parents being away, or even an empty parking lot. Despite the somewhat obnoxious aspect to such romance, Alex enjoyed the times where he could drop a girl off and smoke a cigarette by himself.

It shocked him sometimes how much everything had changed. Now an empty bed felt as foreign as rejection. Though the freedom of smoking went out the window when he married Charlotte—along with most of his things.

“Alex,” Charlotte called from outside the room.

He groaned audibly enough to suffice as a response. The bedroom door opened, and Charlotte’s perfume wafted in with the light from the hall.

“Good morning,” she said sweetly, sitting down next to him. She turned awkwardly to face him and placed a hand on his stomach.

“Are you getting ready to leave?”

Charlotte patted him a few times on the stomach before standing up. She straightened her blouse about her waist and brushed off her skirt.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“You could have wakened me up,” he started. “We could have eaten breakfast together.”

Charlotte let out a chuckle as if she wanted to hold it in her throat, but it escaped. “Because that’s such a tradition with us?” She strode out of the bedroom and to the front door. A single suitcase stood next to the door. Its handle extended as if felt eager to leave. Before Alex could respond to her rhetoric, she hugged him, and with a goodbye kiss she clutched the suitcase rolled it out to the porch.

Charlotte shut the door behind her; after the latch clicked the scent of her perfume wafted in the air until it dissipated amongst the stillness.

Alex stretched and crossed the room to the kitchen. A half-empty glass of orange juice stood on the granite counter. The chrome sink sat empty—untouched; Charlotte hadn’t eaten breakfast. He shook his head. It was common for Charlotte to skip breakfast when she was in a hurry.

Alex’s slippers scuffed across the tiled floor, as he entered the kitchen and approached the fridge. He pulled out a few eggs and shut the door; after the seal slapped the frame, the fridge began to hum. As Alex set the eggs next to Charlotte’s abandoned glass, he noticed her cell phone on the counter.

Without a second to think, he snatched the phone and ran out the door. The autumn sun beat down on the pavement, as the hot days still hadn’t passed. Along the street hovered trees full of red and yellow leaves, and only a few sat on the grass—avoiding the breeze.

As Alex expected, Charlotte’s car had already backed out of the driveway, though it surprised him to find it still sitting at the end of the street. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. Probably rifling through her purse, looking through her cell phone, he thought. Assuming that she had spotted him, he raised the phone in the air. The pair of grey sweatpants and his T-shirt convinced him not to run down the street to give it to her.

Alex waited, now questioning whether she noticed him standing there or not. Through the rear windshield he saw Charlotte lean over and open the passenger’s door. Alex withdrew the phone from the air and used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. From around the corner a silhouette of a man moved towards the open door. The shadow didn’t run or even stride, but instead his pace was relaxed; he even waved to her before climbing into the car. Alex watched as the car door shut. The sound hit him only a second after the sight. Though even with the delay it felt like sensory overload, as if Alex couldn’t process the information as fast as it presented itself. The break lights illuminated and the car eased around the corner.

Alex stood in the driveway for a few moments, staring at the stop sign where Charlotte’s car once stood. He replayed the image in his head like the audio of a broken record. He didn’t know how much time had passed since the car left the intersection, but after reliving it in his mind several times, he began to question whether it had actually happened, or if instead it was his imagination, or if he still laid in bed—dreaming. Of all the thoughts passing through his head, the how to react didn’t occur to him. A million images flew through his mind like a filmstrip on methamphetamines, and in turn, his reaction was stagnancy. The area didn’t offer neighbors in close proximity like a pure suburban town. However, the houses stood at a respectable distance of about twenty-yards. When a neighbor walked down the sidewalk to retrieve the newspaper, he must have noticed Alex standing as if he was carved there. The neighbor glanced at him quickly on the way down, then again as he walked back to the house. Alex’s sleeping habits weren’t a secret. Him being up before ten was enough to raise concern, but him being outside before eight-thirty afforded suspicion.

After realizing that his behavior could be under surveillance by onlookers hidden behind dark window panes or thin curtains, he began to retreat back to the house. After passing through the front door, the interior appeared darker; Alex wanted to give his eyes some time to adjust after being outside. He considered calling Charlotte—asking her what was going on. Being a writer made Alex analytical, not only analytical but also an alarmist. After trying to observe everything that people did—how they spoke, interacted, even how they moved their eyes or where they put their hands after they ate, he began to analyze things, or see things that weren’t really there. He could read nothingness between two lines and reason it into something. Sometimes trying to blur the line of fiction and reality in his writing also blurred his own sight of the real world. After a short inner deliberation, he decided to call her.

Alex opened Charlotte’s phone to call her; it served as a quick refresher that he couldn’t ring her after all. Though it wasn’t very refreshing.

He strode back into the kitchen and laid the phone between the eggs and the juice glass. Taking a few steps back, he stared at it, half expecting it to blow up or grow legs and walk away. Alex rubbed his fingers into his closed eyes, trying to think.

He arrived in the bedroom without recollection of leaving the kitchen. On his bedside stand was his black cell phone, still attached to the wall charger. Snatching it from the table, he clicked the phone through the saved numbers. He had no idea who he was going to call, but once he clicked his way through the contacts and the name “Scott Jennie” highlighted, he instinctively pressed send. No longer fueled by a logical thought process, he operated without the presence of mind to analyze what had happened into nothing. He wanted to have a second opinion, before he convinced himself it was just a friend of theirs in need of a ride to the BMV.

Before the phones connected, Alex glanced at his hands. He looked at his palm and then his fingers—moving them and flexing them. They appeared in perfect clarity. After moving his fingers around, he concentrated on his free hand while the other held the phone to his hear. Alex attempted to grow a second pinky-finger. Only after failing did Alex accept that he was no longer in his bed having a nightmare.

The phone rang twice before Scott picked up.

“It’s Alex,” he spat out after Scott’s greeting.

“It’s Saturday-“

“Listen,” Alex interrupted. “Some guy got into Charlotte’s car.” Alex’s speech rarely held the same articulation as his writing.

“Wait,” Scott said, “What?” Saturdays and Sundays were Scott’s day off, and he didn’t like to be disturbed until the evenings. After serving in the military, he moved on to teach high school physics.

Alex leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “Some guy just got into her car, and they drove away.”

“Listen Alex, let me get dressed and I’ll be over in a few. Did you call the police?”

“No. I don’t think it’s-“ Alex stopped himself, as if uttering the words aloud would transition his thoughts into reality.

“Just wait,” Scott said. “I’ll be over in a few.”

Alex agreed and terminated the connection.