Page 11 of Somewhere Along The Line
Not that I have ever missed it, but I certainly won’t now.
This harmless tit-for-tat is exactly what I can handle at the moment. It’s enough to remind me that my heart isn’tentirelymade of stone and that I’m capable of something approximating fun, but it’s not so much that it costs me anything. Other than the extra fare money each month, which hardly counts.
It’s good this way.
I haul myself into the house after another late night, releasing a groan as I take in the growing pile of letters scattered all over the floor on account of the door’s mail slot. This is what happens when you’re never around—the responsibilities accumulate until you can’t ignore them anymore.
I grab the stack of mail and head toward the kitchen, kicking off my shoes and carefully dropping my bag on the bench that makes a nook of the foyer.
The microwave clock reads 11:32 p.m., and I note, with appreciation, that it’s not quite as late as usual. After grabbing a beer from the fridge, I settle at the counter, the cold metal of the barstool seeping through to my skin as I rifle through the mail, sorting it into piles.
“Trash, trash, shred, trash, keep…” I dictate aloud, assigning each letter to its respective stack.
There are four items of consequence, the rest a mass of flyers, advertisements, and junk mail. I feed those to the recycling bin with a thud as I thumb through what remains.
First up, a credit card bill even though I am positive I’ve signed up for paperless e-statements at least twice. I set it aside to bring to the office tomorrow. That’s tomorrow’s problem for tomorrow’s James.
Next, my eyes linger on a donation request postcard from a local non-profit. It’s the sort of thing I’d typically toss… if I didn’t have a house full of furniture in the suburbs that I need to help clear out. Based on the stock images plastered across the front, it looks like the organization provides resources for low-income families.
I slide the postcard across the counter where it lands next to the empty fruit bowl. Mom loved helping other people; she was compassion personified. Donating her things to help other families get on their feet feels like the right move.
I vow to give the advert to Dad the next time I see him and tell him to set up a pick-up appointment when he’s ready. Maybe this will motivate both of us to start packing up the house in earnest.
With the postcard out of the way, a notice from our estate lawyer glares at me from the counter. My heart stops for a second at the startling reminder that Mom is not onlynot here, she’sdead. A shiver sends prickles of cold down my back.
It shouldn’t be shocking, after so many months, but the finality of her death still catches me off guard. I place the letter on top of the credit card bill to look at tomorrow. Maybe then I’ll have the energy to deal with it.
Last but not least, I pick up an envelope from MTA with “Card Enclosed” stamped on the left side under the return address. Adrenaline runs through me as I toy with the envelope, bending it carefully with both hands to feel the edges of the new fare cards tacked to the letter inside.
I tear open the back and peel the cards from the paper, sticky adhesive pulling at my skin as I flip one between my fingers. I take out my wallet and tuck both cards into a slot.
While I knew this letter was coming—I did order the cards in the commuter portal after all—seeing Piper’s fare card in the flesh makes my stomach tumble to my knees. It has been easy enough to pretend the silly agreement we made, an extension of the insanity that surrounded us that morning on the train, only existed in theory. With this physical evidence in my pocket, that’s no longer possible.
This doesn’t have to be a big deal.
The mantra flashes behind my eyes without conscious thought. I swivel off the bar stool and adjust my pants, my hand briefly palming the wallet in my back pocket.
The last swig of my beer tingles on its way down before I toss the bottle in the bin atop the discarded mail, a shrine to the evening’s activities. I suppose I’ll give Piper the card tomorrow morning during our exit meet-up on the train. I could say something like,
“I’m not trying to make a pass at you, but here’s your pass.” ABSOLUTELY. FUCKING. NOT. My face burns in embarrassment from having even had the thought.
Instead, I’ll try something like, “Look what arrived. It’s a great day for free commuting.” Somehow that’s even worse. Why am I so bad at this? It’s likely the whole haven’t-dated-for-years thing.
I’ll just stick to something simple like, “Hey, I got your pass. Don’t lose it. I don’t want to get charged for a replacement.” I could say that if I wanted to look like an asshole… which I don’t.
“Hey, this is for you.” Simple, short, direct. Nothing is implied, there’s no risk of insult, it’s not cheesy, and it doesn’t betray the nerves that spring up whenever I interact with her. It’ll have to do.
It’s 6:45 a.m. whenI swing open the metal door to the office, and I’m thrilled to find I’m the only one here. There’s something about a quiet space at the start of a workday that feels hopeful.
While I dread morning meetings, like the one at 7:15 with today’s prospective donor, it’s nice to start before the day’s chaos ensues. Plus, I can’t blame folks for wanting to meet before they head to work, even if it meansmywork starts when the sun’s barely up.
The 6:30 a.m. train was empty and felt especially so without a Banker Man exchange to look forward to. It’s become a source of amusement, wondering what sort of line he’ll give me as we split up at the doors.
I wonder whether he’ll ever be James, in my mind, or whether Banker Man is the best he’ll get from me. I should stick with Banker Man. It’s less personal. Less likely to mean something it shouldn’t mean. More likely to dampen the nervous energy that flits under my skin when I wonder whether he’ll miss me today too.
Slinging my tote over the back of my chair, I unload its contents to their respective homes on my desk. The laptop gets plugged in, my lunch gets tucked in the bottom left drawer, I place my notebook to my right and my water bottle to the left. I pick out a file from the bottom right drawer and scan the profile of this morning’s donor to familiarize myself before he arrives.
Like most of our donors, Mr. Nowak is older and trying to find purpose in retirement after a lifetime of,checks notes, corporate law. He’s interested in seeing the proposal for the Hope First scholarship program. He wants to learn how any funds he provides would be allocated.
