“I... I won't be home tonight,” he stammered, a heavy rustling muffling him in the background.
“What do you mean?” I asked, backing out of my parking spot with the phone on speaker, hoping the roar of my stomach couldn’t be heard.
“We need to talk.”
I sighed, more than flustered. “About what? When are you going to be home?”
He said tonight as if he weren’t coming home at all. That likely meant his boss was sending him to play errand boy out of town again for the weekend.
“About this, Elena.”
“This what? Why do you keep calling me that?” I demanded.
If he was mad about the shoes, he could at least say it. I hated guessing games.
“Look, this isn’t working...” he trailed, releasing a long breath.
“What isn’t working, Justin?” I asked, a knot forming in my throat.
Was it the firm? Was he considering quitting? I’d love and support him no matter what, but damn, he could give a girl a little warning.
“Our relationship.”
Each word hit like a softball to the stomach, forcing hunger aside to make room for pain. “What are you talking about?” I screeched, slamming on the brakes.
A horn sounded from behind, the shouts of an angry driver hurled my way.
“This hasn’t been working for a while, Elena.”
We were busy, but things were definitely working — including his penis. We had sex the night before. What exactly wasn’t working about that? He seemed perfectly fine with me then.
He told me he loved me before I left for work in the morning and kissed me goodbye as usual. What changed in twelve hours?
“Are you insane?” I shrieked. “I just got off the phone with the wedding planner!”
He had cold feet. He just needed to sleep on it to come to his senses. He was speaking gibberish.
The horn in the distance continued to blast, the road ahead blurred by tears. But I couldn't move, crushed in place by the sudden weight of the ring on my hand. The cursed piece of jewelry held my gaze, our life together imploding before my very eyes.
“Call her back. There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Elena Nine months later
Day one of low-carb life was a disaster.
A limp lettuce wrap was nothing compared to the scent of lasagna wafting over from accounting as the group feasted on Don’s homemade delicacy of carbs, carbs, and more carbs.
The article online made it sound easy with bacon-wrapped this and cheese-wrapped that but failed to mention every-fucking-thing had carbs in it. Starches were more than a food group; they were family.
If I woke up with an alarm, there would have been time to whip up something snazzier, but no, I forgot to set the sucker the night before. I was more focused on applying to new jobs than my current one.
It was only my cat, Hank, singing the song of his people, who dragged me out of bed a half-hour later than usual.
Thanks to dry shampoo, I made it into the office on time and managed to match, though an emerald sweater was absurd in July. The heat stayed close despite the chill of the air conditioning, but the personal summer was a blessing in disguise.
With our thermostat set on Antarctica, everyone walked around with permanent headlights peeking through their tops. It wasn’t unusual to see coworkers donning gloves in their cubicles or sunning themselves in the parking lot to thaw midday.
I kept reminding myself of the lasagna’s creator as I worked, trying to fend off the fumes of Italian magic. While I didn't care to know what Don did outside of Croft, all signs pointed towards perversion. He was creepy enough to leave me noping the hell out of any situation where we were alone together. I saw enough episodes of Forensics to know where it could end up, and becoming a lampshade wasn’t on my bucket list.
Tap by tap, the latest report took shape, each cell a new dose of bad news for someone waiting on late deliveries. A fat stack of updates awaiting entry taunted all the while, a three o'clock deadline looming.
Working through lunch made it possible, but there was no telling what my manager, Marty, might pull out of a hat for me to do.
The room was abuzz, a hum of whispers forming a constant backdrop. It was a welcome relief, drowning out the usual symphony of gum chewing and pen tapping that left me twitching by day’s end.
Everyone was gushing over the new branch manager, and Croft’s gossip wheel was already spinning wildly.
The position sat vacant for months after the last one’s abrupt firing. There was no shortage of rumors surrounding Steve Wilson’s termination, but anything was plausible. He spent his days bragging about his old digs in Marina del Rey and alleged successes, but anyone with half of a brain could peg him as a bullshitter.
The wrap continued to tease from the bowels of its plastic coffin as I worked, a glaring reminder of how pathetic things were. I went from scooping up grub in the Big Apple to eating out of a lunch box. All that was missing was a juice box, and I’d be a second grader again.
Just as I hit the last stretch of the file, a familiar nervous chatter fluttered toward the cubicle pod. I typed like mad and popped the last of my wrap in my mouth, knowing Marty be long-winded in whatever he was coming to say.
His high-pitched cackling lasted until he parked at Monica's desk several feet away, falling silent once reaching his target. He always sounded somewhat deranged like a hyena, worsened by his coffee habit. Hopefully, he only wanted to talk to her for a change, but I doubted it.
Monica wasn't anyone's first choice to talk to. Dad always said people like her were full of piss and vinegar, but she was full of piss, vinegar, and
