Free Seeing Red by Shawn Sutherland Page B

recently, I started writing everything down in a journal, just so I wouldn’t forget. Basic things, y’know, like where I went, what I did, who I ran into, what we said to each other, where I—”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this?” she snaps.
    I pause. “In a couple of days I probably won’t remember you. At all. Your name, your face—it’ll be like none of this ever happened.”
    Melanie remains quiet with her eyes focused on her plate, leisurely stirring her food around in a circle while I keep talking.
    â€œYou can still patch things up with whats-his-name. You’re great. He’s a lucky guy. I’m sure he knows that.”
    â€œI don’t know what I’m gonna do,” she sighs. Reaching into her purse, she retrieves a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the tablecloth as she rises from her chair. “It’s on me. Good luck with the job hunt, Ethan.”
    Seconds later, Melanie leaves through the front door and I’m left staring at her empty chair. With a big chunk of melon in my mouth, I point at her plate with my fork and mumble, “Hey, you forgot your toast!”

TWELVE
    It’s around two o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still hungover. I don’t even have the energy to shit, shower and shave. My bedroom is hot and sweltering with no air conditioning; there’s nothing but a desk fan oscillating on the nightstand and the sunlight is seeping in through the blinds. Hungry, I throw on a pair of jeans and my blue dress shirt from last night and wander down the street to a pizza place on the corner. Inside, it’s even hotter than my apartment and the worker behind the counter is sweating profusely: his forehead, his underarms, probably his crotch and his balls, everything. I guess they don’t have air conditioning either. Or they’ve decided to forego it in an effort to save money. Times are tight. Hygienic concerns aside, I order a large pepperoni and ask him how long it’ll take.
    â€œI have to finish this other one first. . . so maybe fifteen, twenty minutes?” As opposed to waiting and melting to death, I tell him I’ll come back when it’s ready.
    Avoiding the hustle of the main streets, I light myself a cigarette and decide on a stroll through the nearby residential area. Row upon row of uniform houses, each two storeys tall and made of brown brick. Most of the houses have a small wooden deck at the front, typically with a barbecue and a couple of chairs. Four sets of parents have congregated on one of the decks, talking and laughing while their children play on the front lawn, running around in circles and spraying each other with toy water guns.
    The scene reminds me of the first time I met Rachael. We were really young—only twelve or thirteen—and one day after school some classmates and I walked to a friend’s house where all the neighbourhood kids were having a water fight. We joined in, and within ten minutes I was completely drenched. Feeling thirsty, I asked my friend where I could get a drink and he pointed to the house next door. There was a patio at the back and I walked up the stairs and opened the sliding door and saw her sitting there in the kitchen, alone, nursing a small bruise on her ankle. Apparently she had tripped while dodging an airborne water balloon. I found some ice in the freezer and wrapped it up in a paper towel and gave it to her to apply to the wound. “Thanks,” she said. Then she told me her name was Rachael.
    It wasn’t long before we were calling each other on a daily basis. Ten-minute phone conversations turned into two-hour marathon sessions. Every Sunday she volunteered at a local children’s hospital, and she once complained to me that she had no one to eat lunch with, so I told her I’d meet her in the cafeteria any time she wanted—even though the hospital was an hour’s walk from my house and the weather was often