Exile
He stared at the word of the day calendar on his desk. It had now been one month.
One month to the day since she said she'd call, and here he was…still waiting, still
frustrated. He reached for his cell phone, but the bandage on his right hand reminded
him that it wasn't there. It hadn't been there since last night. He'd spent most of last
night at the Old Haunt 'crying in his beer' and constantly checking his phone. The
stupid thing had taken control of his life. He couldn't be without it. It was in his hand
more than it was in his pocket and his heart raced every time it rang. The constant
disappointment was crushing.
His favorite bartender Alec had called him a cab at closing time, and it was while he
was waiting outside the bar that it happened. It was one of the few times that he'd
put the phone in his pocket and when he felt it vibrate with a text alert, he couldn't
get it out fast enough. He fumbled with it and his dulled reflexes caused him to drop
it on to the sidewalk. He bent over to pick it up and fell hard onto his left shoulder. He
didn't remember being that drunk at the time, but the hangover he'd been nursing
all day said otherwise. He remembered the panic he felt as he frantically scrambled
around on his hands and knees, and the high pitched panic in his voice as he called
out to himself, "Where's my phone!, Where's my fuckin' phone?" When he finally did
find it hiding under his left foot and saw that it was a text from Alexis checking up on
him…that's when he lost it.
He began smashing the phone into the sidewalk. He wanted to destroy it. Smash it into
a billion pieces that were so small that he couldn't tell it was ever a phone. The first hit
chipped the corner. The second cracked the face. The third split the phone open and the
fourth sent a shard of glass into the palm of his hand. That had been the end of his tirade,
and of his phone. It took some help from Alec and a two hour wait for six stitches at the
emergency room, but he finally made it home. The inquisition that he received from both
his mother and daughter made him wish he was still sitting in the waiting room at the
hospital. At least there he was surrounded by people like himself. Broken people. Some
broken on the inside, crying quietly in their chairs. Others broken on the outside, with their
life slowly dripping onto the floor. That's where he belonged.
His replies were brusque. He never answered their questions and he left them angry as he
closed and locked the door to his bedroom. He didn't want to explain and he didn't want to
lie. So, he thought it best to put off till tomorrow what he didn't want to do today.
…
Today hadn't been any better. He apologized to them, but wouldn't talk about what happened.
Some things were his own to keep. He quit looking at the calendar on his desk. It didn't hold
any answers, only words. Instead, he leaned back into his chair, closed his eyes and pondered
the loss of his phone. It had to be a portent. Surely it meant that he had lost her.
The bullet had touched her heart and found him guilty. That's why she never called. Josh said
he was guilty. When had she told him? She said she never told him. The only way he could
have know that, was if she had told him. That has to be it. I'm guilty. The only thing left for
me to do now…is walk away.
But what if she calls?