Chapter eleven:
I sit at the bus stop for hours and I’m glad my work is two blocks from here so I don’t risk being seen.
Even though I don’t think she’ll come during the day. It was nighttime when I saw her, and him, last. And I haven’t seen him today either.
I wish I had paid better attention to him. If I had, I may have noticed some clues and then maybe I would know where he worked. And if I knew where he worked, I’d know where to go. But I didn’t because I’m an idiot, and now I’m stuck here, freezing my balls off, waiting for her—or him, but mainly her—to show again.
And I’m missing work, which is not a good thing to do. And my parole officer will be pissed when Charlie tells him. That isifCharlie tells him.
And all I know about Mr. Fancy Asshole is that he wears an expensive suit, has a slicked-back haircut, and uses a black umbrella and rides in yellow cabs.
And I know I’m fucked, because it’s not enough.
That’s like every one of these pretentious assholes that work round here.
I can’t find her—or him, but mainly her—with this pitiful amount of information.
But I have hope that maybe the universe will take pity on me and throw me something good. Give me a clue as to how I can find her. After all, it was the universe that helped me find her again, and why would it show her to me only to snatch her away from me again?
I keep myself busy with thinking about what I’ll say to her when I do find her again. When that moment comes and we’re face to face, nose to nose, lips to lips, body to body. I’ll pick her up and spin her around, I know that for certain. It will be like in one of those old black-and-white movies we used to watch as kids. And she’ll probably laugh and tell me I’m crazy but that she knew I’d find her eventually.
Then she’ll tell the fancy asshole to fuck off.
And then I’ll look at his shocked face and tell him to fuck off too.
And we’ll be laugh and shout “fuck off” to him, and then he’ll storm away like the prick he is, back to his wife and kids.
I smile at the thoughts, all tumbling around in my head.
It hasn’t rained today. Not yet, anyway. But I can feel it in the air. The moisture hanging heavy, waiting for the storm to finally arrive. A gushing downpour from above, a bolt of lightning, the crack of thunder.
It’s going to be glorious when it comes.
I don’t like the rain, but I respect a good storm.
You have to, you see.
A storm is dangerous.
It’s a warning, a threat.
It’s violent and untamable.
You can’t hide from a storm.
You can’t blot it out.
You can’t pretend it isn’t there.
There’s no hiding under an umbrella to keep your hair dry.
If you get caught in a storm, you could end up dead.
I once read an article about a guy that got struck by lightning. The guy had waited outside, hoping to be struck, because he thought he’d get superpowers if he did. I still remember reading it to my roommate, and we both laughed and said the guy was crazy, because life wasn’t like in a DC movie. You don’t get superpowers if you get hit by 10,000 volts of electricity; you get killed.
Then we’d argued over the newspaper because he’d wanted it to wipe his ass with it because we’d ran out of toilet paper, but I wasn’t done reading it yet.
The argument escalated into a fight, and then the fight got out of hand and we both ended up in isolation. I had a new roommate after that, which was a shame because I had actually liked the other guy. Most of the time anyway.
