Will do. Night.
It’s funny how sometimes certain words take on an added dimension when you read them. Most words are just words, but others hit differently. They have weight and a voice. Iheardhis response.
“Night,” I say to my phone screen like he can hear me too. And then I type,
Night.
I hope it feels as three-dimensional on his end as it does on mine.
six
Yes,I checked my messages when I woke up this morning. Before I got out of bed. Or peed, which is usually priority one due to my minuscule bladder. Nothing. I checked his account to see if he made a post. Nothing. There’s a small pinch of disappointment, which I know is nuts because the guy has a life and isn’t living it to satisfy my, apparently, needy ass. For all I know, he’s on the other side of the world and is sleeping now.
After I throw on a fresh tank and shorts, run a washcloth over my face, wrestle my hair into a ponytail, and brush my teeth, I make my way to the kitchen and the Nespresso and its life-delivering powers.
Benji is already there looking forlorn. He’s holding a small piece of paper in his hand.
Panic instantly spikes. “What’s wrong?”
He hands me the note. It’s Lola’s handwriting:
Shithead came for the Nespresso this morning.
She opened the coffee shop, so she left for work around six o’clock. He was here early. My new white noise, sleep-inducing app must work like a mofo because I didn’t hear a thing. I glance at the clock, and it’s almost seven-thirty.
She’s probably in the middle of a rush, but she’s also a skilled multitasker, so I text.
Chance was here this morning?!?!
The three dots begin to bounce on my screen immediately. And then a voice message comes through with the screeching accompaniment of coffee beans grinding in the background. “I told him I don’t negotiate with assholes. He said it was too early to deal withmy shit. The nerve, right?”
I type a response and keep it short.
Right.
The dots return, and then another voice message. “In the end, I accidentally dropped it during the hostage handoff. And by accidentally, I mean I told him you were better off without him and launched that motherfucker like a shot put into the driveway.”
I cringe at the thought of her talking like this in front of customers, but walk to the front window and, sure enough, the carnage is strewn all over the driveway next to my Mini Cooper.
Before I can answer, another voice message comes through. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to clean up. I was on my way out the door and already late for work when he showed up.”
I type back,
No worries, I’ll take care of it.
“Make sure she gets a proper burial. She served us well.”
I agree.
Legend.
A meme comes through of a guy in formal military garb, and “Taps” is trumpeting through my speaker.
“Amen,” Benji says. He’s agnostic, but it sounded more solemn than sarcastic. We’re all in mourning over the loss.
“Rest in peace, old girl,” I add, and look at my nephew. “Any ideas? I need to log in in five minutes for work.”
“I could walk to Jonesing For Java,” he suggests. It’s the cute indie coffee shop Lola works at a few blocks away. The coffee is good, but it’s expensive, so I rarely go.
