thoughts – and he went back to work.
He walked into the diner with his grease-stained lunch bag hanging from his fist. Robert and Chris had left without him again. He stood on the scarred vinyl floor and scanned
the room, looking for his friends. The diner was busy, full of chatter and the sounds of forks and knives scraping against plates, and chairs being scooted in or pushed out, and heads of blond and
brown and black and red hair filled Simon’s view. But after a moment Simon saw Robert’s ponytail hanging down his back. Robert and Chris were sitting side by side in a booth in the back
corner. Their backs were to the door. It was almost as if they were hoping Simon wouldn’t see them.
Simon weaved his way through the crowded tables and sat down across from them. Their food had already arrived and they were eating.
‘Hi, guys.’
‘Hi,’ Chris said.
Robert did not look up from his plate. He simply dragged a couple fries through a smear of ketchup and shoved them into his mouth.
‘How you doing, Robert?’
‘I’m okay,’ Robert said, his voice cold. ‘I just lost my appetite, though.’ He did not look up at Simon when he spoke. He simply stared down at his plate.
Simon blinked. Then he understood what Robert had meant last night about no longer owing him anything, what he meant when he said they were square.
‘Oh,’ he said after a minute. ‘Okay.’
Chris looked confused. ‘Okay, what?’ he said through a mouthful of food.
Simon didn’t answer. He got to his feet and walked toward an empty table. As he did the sound of Chris asking Robert what was going on faded into the overall noise in the room and became
inaudible. Simon sat down. He unpacked his lunch and ate without even tasting his food, just giving fuel to the machine that was his body, just doing what was necessary. His stomach did not feel
good. He glanced at Robert and Chris a couple times, but they were simply eating and talking and did not look back. Not even Chris.
Maybe it was best this way. As long as Robert stayed quiet it probably was.
When his lunch was gone he folded up the cling wrap in which it had been packaged, making several small translucent squares and stacking them neatly on the table. Then he folded his
grease-stained lunch bag into quarters and put it in the inside pocket of his corduroy sport coat.
He got to his feet.
Alone on his couch with a glass of whiskey in his hands. The glass was cold and wet with condensation. Skip James was singing ‘Hard Time Killin’ Floor Blues’,
and Simon was staring at his grayish reflection in the broken television in the corner. He’d turned it on when he got home, but there was no picture, just sound, so he’d turned it off
again.
He finished his whiskey and set the glass down on the coffee table. He looked at the photograph of Samantha and Jeremy Shackleford and twisted the wedding band on his hand. He liked the pressure
of it on the webs between his fingers. He liked the weight of it. He imagined himself in that photograph. He imagined himself caressing Samantha’s body. He imagined himself making love with
her, feeling her hot exhalations as she breathed into the crook of his neck.
He poured himself another drink.
Once he’d decided what he was going to do he felt okay. He slept soundly. If he dreamed at all, the dreams were peaceful, and he awoke the next morning feeling better
than he had in a very long time, despite the dull ache of a hangover hovering around his head like a cloud, despite the sourness in his stomach.
The office was Saturday quiet, staffed at ten per cent, and in the quiet all Simon could think about was what he was going to do once his shift ended. It was the first time he
had ever regretted his six-day work weeks, the only time he would rather have had the day off. Before today he had only regretted the fact that he couldn’t also work Sundays.
Eventually, though, it was time to leave.
Instead of continuing along Wilshire to