We're Going Where?

Tom sprawls on his couch, a bag of opened cheesies in his lap, and his hands covered in orange greasy dust. A ping-pong tournament is playing on his television. He’s content, relaxing, and doesn’t care who will win. 

He snacks and grows drowsy, and the bag drops from his hand, as he nods off to the intermittent drone of the commentators and the clacking of paddles fades from his awareness. 

With a start, he awakens when his front door is unlocked and his girlfriend, Jessica, calls out to him. “I knocked and knocked. You didn’t answer.” Orange smudges of chemical dust gleam on his gray track pants and white tee-shirt. Damn, he hadn’t been expecting her. 

“Tom, oh here you are,” she emerges in front of him, blocking his view of his television. The ping-pong tournament is over, and now a bowling tournament is being broadcast. He stretches to peer around Jessica, but stops when she frowns.

“What? I’m stretching my back.”

She snaps off the television. “Did you forget?”

“Of course, I didn’t forget.” He racks his brain. They’d gone out for her birthday last month. Their anniversary wasn’t until October, because that’s when his birthday is, so it can’t be that.

“You have no idea, what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Oh, I didn’t forget. I just sat down to relax a little.” He jumps up, orange chemical dust floating off his clothing. “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.” Thirty-second shower, throw on a suit, and head out to the car, and by then, the occasion should be perfectly clear. He smacks his lips against hers, and swings his body out into the hall, up the stairs, and through the bedroom, and into the ensuite shower. 

“Tom,” she calls out, but he pretends not to hear her. 

Within ten minutes, he’s clean and impeccably dressed in a suit. He presents well, if he doesn’t say so himself. Fidgeting with his cuff link, “Would you give me a hand, sweetheart?” 

Hopefully, the occasion, whatever it is, won’t be more than a dinner and they’ll be home in a couple of hours, and he can relax. The sofa invites him to sink into its cushions and he yearns to turn the television back on. What is Jessica on about? He can’t keep track of her strange hours at the theater company? Even though she emails him a copy of her schedule every month, they’re a bother to find. That’s it. He should have checked his email when he was upstairs. Now he feels her eyes on him, and doesn’t want to let her know he’s clueless.

His phone is on the coffee table, next to the gaping bag of cheesies, with a few small orange logs near the edge of the bag. He restrains from shoving a bunch into his mouth. The allure of the crunch of salty cheesy pieces collapsing into a softened salty mush is too dangerous. His charcoal suit and white shirt will get messed up. Instead of the cheesies, he grabs his phone, intent on checking his email without her knowing.

She fixes his cufflinks and straightens his sleeves. “You forgot your tie,” she says.

He feels around his neck. The obligatory strip of cloth is indeed missing.

He exhales sharply. “I’ll get it,” he says and turns on his heels and runs up the steps two at a time. By the time he grabs one of his go-to ties off a hook, and bounds back down the steps, he’s breathing hard. At the mirror in the hall, he ties his tie and dismisses his five o’clock shadow. 

Remaining in front of the mirror, he opens his phone and brings up her calendar. Strange, Jessica has a shift this evening. She hasn’t mentioned it being canceled, or has she? He glances back at her over his shoulder and flashes a quick smile, which she doesn’t return. 

He rubs the close gristle on his jawline. “Too much, I guess. I’ll shave.” He checks his wrist watch like he knows their schedule, and looks back at her, but her face is somber and doesn’t give him any clues. “Was this thing at six or six-thirty?”

“Oh, Tom. You don’t have a frigging clue, do you?” Jessica said.

“Honey, don’t say that. I had a lot going on today.” No, he’d been sent home early. There hadn’t been enough business in the printing shop to keep himself and his boss working through the afternoon. He could have been making more of an effort to make calls, but tomorrow was another day. Now, what did Jessica want from him? 

The tension creeps up his neck, and for a moment he can’t decide if the better course is to shave or forgo the shave. Since she hasn’t moved towards the door, presumably a shave would be a good idea. He dashes up the stairs, and busies himself with a quick shave, and pats a little aftershave lotion on his jaw and chin. There, much better. Now, to get to whatever it is they’re going to, over with. 

Aware he’s been running up and down like a schoolboy, he straightens his back and slows his walk down the stairs. This is his house, after all, and while he’s given her keys, he’s not about to let her run his life. If she thinks she’s going to henpeck him into submission, she has another thing coming. He runs his hand through his hair, loosening it over his eyes and rumples his shirt collar. Heck, he should even have a few cheesies before the road.

“Jessica, I wish you would have given me notice you were coming over,” he says loudly before he enters the room. 

She’s left. The front door stands ajar, and outside the cool air has sucked out all the expectation of the evening. He stands on the porch, and wonders he didn’t hear her car leave. After a minute, he goes back inside, ignoring the urge to call her. Why didn’t she say she was leaving? 

He slumps into the sofa, and switches on the television, but now it makes his head heavy and nauseous, so he turns it off. Picking up a few cheesies, he fingers them in his palm, but they smell gross and chemical, and his mouth feels dry enough as it is. He doesn’t want more salt. At the kitchen sink, he watches the cheesies dissolve under the tap into an orange flow of water and washes his hands. Prowling the house, he searches his brain. Surely, she’ll call him. 

Half an hour later, she hasn’t called him. 

He perches on the sofa in the living room, reluctant to start dinner on his own. I haven’t done anything wrong. But niggling thoughts creep into his consciousness. What was she wearing? He couldn’t recall. Maybe that would have given him a clue. 

She’d stayed over last night, and they’d breakfasted in the morning. He couldn’t remember a thing, except a dim recollection of his social media feeds. There was that white cat doing the acrobatics and those raging people going on about some conspiracy thing. Yeah, right, he’d mentioned it to Jessica. She must have made some agreeing noises, since he’d have noticed if she hadn’t.

He paces, hoping to shake loose a memory. What had she worn in the morning? He draws a blank. She must have said something to him. Why can’t he remember anything about her in his home today? It was as if she hadn’t even been there. 

In the kitchen, he drinks a glass of water. He opens his phone and presses her name. Her voicemail comes up. “Jessica, ….”