Fortunately, work had piled up in my absence—e-mails to answer, a web page update, three meetings to attend—and I was grateful for the distractions. The meetings, returning of calls, and other administrative tasks kept me busy until nearly seven o’clock that night. For one of the first times since I’d taken this job, I was reluctant to go home, when normally I’d be chomping at the bit to get out of this sterile hive of cubicles.
Around five, I’d sent a text to Josh, telling him I was working late and that our boss was treating us to pizza. I thought I might not be home until late. He shouldn’t expect us to see each other tonight. He texted back immediately, wondering why we couldn’t at least crawl into bed together at the end of the day.
I ignored that text and the several that followed. Each successive e-mail was a little whinier, a little more pleading. What had I gotten myself into?
Would the day come when I’d be forced to be like Richard Blake and not return home at all? Nothing as bad as what happened to him had fallen upon me. Josh had never threatened me, not physically. He’d never raised a hand—or a knife—to me.
Still, I wondered, is that what it would take? My life being threatened? Did I really need to go that far to realize I might be in peril? That staying with Josh wasn’t a good choice?
And what if the threat came true? It was possible to delay too long. It was possible to give up one’s life, health, sanity—for what? A relationship that could very well be built on lies? To lie down at night with a person who might not allow me to get up again?
C’mon, Ted, you’re smarter than this…
I sat at my desk, staring out at the urban night—the gothic spires of the Tribune Tower were lit up, and so was Navy Pier. The Ferris wheel turned. The Chicago River was a slick black line below. The lake a vast expanse of darkness. These sights made me feel isolated, removed from the world.
I scrolled down the contacts in my phone until I came to Karl. I hesitated only for a moment and then pressed the screen to call him.
Voice mail. Shit. I hung up.
I was gathering up my things to get ready to leave the eerily empty office when my phone rang. The screen told me it was Karl.
“Hey! Sorry I missed your call. I was out walking the dog and I didn’t have my phone on me. What’s up?”
I couldn’t tell him what was ‘up’ over the phone. “What are you doing right now?”
“Not much. Just winding down. It’s been a long, busy day.”
“Have you eaten? Wanna do dinner?” The idea of food seemed a little sickening, but it’s what one does. Where else could I meet him? A church? A bar? Both of those places, the homes of sinners and saints, just didn’t seem appropriate.
“I had a little something a little while ago. But I could go for dessert, so I could meet, sure. Do you have a place in mind?”
“Ann Sather is on the way home.”
“Oh, and one of their cinnamon rolls would make a perfect dessert.”
“See you there in a half hour or so?”
“Perfect.” He paused, and it was as though I could hear him thinking. Then, he asked, “Hey Ted. Is everything okay?”
He must have picked up on the stress in my voice. “Peachy.” I said, knowing my tone belied my answer.
I hung up.
*
Ann Sather is a Swedish restaurant steps away from the Belmont L stop. It’s a Chicago institution, occupying this space (a former funeral home) for longer than I could remember. Somebody once told me it was a little ways down the street, in a smaller space. But that had to have been at least forty years ago. The restaurant was known for its enormous cinnamon rolls and Swedish meatballs. The walls were painted with cheerful and quaint murals. The place was huge, but I’d never seen it not crowded and lively.
I’d also never had a problem getting a seat. The place was huge.
I looked around at the tables to see if Karl had arrived yet.
“One?”
A young Hispanic man, cute, with the darkest eyes, approached me, menus in hand.
“One is the loneliest number, or so I’ve heard.”
He looked at me, a question written across his features. Not a fan of late 1960s rock, I guess. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone? A guy with curly blond hair? On the small side?”
