These Things Happen

“Don’t wait up for me.” She discovers the note pinned to the corkboard next to the door in the kitchen.

“What? How did this get here?” she wonders. Who got into her apartment to leave this note? She unpins the piece of torn notebook paper and puts it on the table. She takes off her coat and scarf to hang them on the hook on the wall. She sets her backpack on one of the two chairs and rubs her hands together to warm them up. The stormy wind whistles through the cracked open windows here in the kitchen and the one in her bedroom. She gets claustrophobic if these two windows are not cracked open, no matter how cold it is.

She picks up the note again. Nothing else except those five words. No signature, no indication of who doesn’t want her to wait up for them. She doesn’t recognize the handwriting, and it’s sloppy, like the person wrote it quickly. It also looks masculine, heavy, like the writer was pushing hard on the paper. Possibly angry.

She doesn’t feel any fear and is not entirely sure why. Shouldn’t she be frightened that someone broke into her apartment? Maybe, except she had given a spare key to Mick when he needed a short-term place to stay last summer. He had forgotten to leave the key when he finished his summer internship and though she had not forgotten to ask him to give it back, she had not asked. She liked the idea of him being able to come and stay with her again if he needed to.

But if he had returned, wouldn’t he have called or texted her first? She checks her text messages and recent call log. Nothing. No one ever texts or calls her. She pulls her laptop out of the backpack and opens it on the countertop. She does a Google search and finds the recipe for salade nicoise. She then pulls the small bag of groceries out of her backpack. She puts two eggs in a pot of water to hard boil, then opens the can of tuna in oil. She rinses the lettuce and as she tears it and drops it in a bowl, she half expects Butch, her kitten, to come running to “help” her with the tuna. Not going to happen. Butch won’t be running to the kitchen or anywhere else.

She chops two small Yukon Gold potatoes and drops them into another pot with water to boil. A tear slides down her cheek. Butch. The fluffiest gray and white kitten ever born, with green-gold eyes and a purr that warmed her nights for three months. But no more. She goes into the living room to turn on the TV. She flips to the HLN channel and chooses one of the Forensic Files episodes that she has already watched at least ten times. The narrator’s voice is soothing. And it’s nice to know that she’s not the only person on earth who can’t make people or animals stay with her, whether they want to or not.

When she returns to the kitchen, after turning the volume on the TV up enough to hear the murmur of the narrator, but not loud enough to really distract her from her thoughts, she picks up the note again. Who would not want her to wait up for them? Has she been waiting up for someone’s return lately? No, not really.

Unless you count the guy from down the hall who knocked on her door a couple of weeks ago to ask if her power was out, too. It turned out that he had tried to have two space heaters on to warm up his apartment because he “forgot” to pay the heating bill. A fuse blew but it only shut off the electricity in his apartment. She had told him, no, her power wasn’t out. He had looked at her meaningfully, like he wanted to be invited in to share the warmth of her paid-for heat. But she had shut the door and locked it.

The next evening, she had gone over to his apartment and knocked on the door. When he opened it, he saw who it was and almost slammed the door in her face. Except she pushed against the door to keep it open, saying, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. Please come over. I’m cooking and I have too much.”

“Yeah? Um, well, thanks,” he had replied. He hadn’t even put his shoes on as he closed and locked his apartment door and followed her into hers. His name was Peter, and his smile and kisses had somewhat made up for Butch not being there to keep her company.

“Do you hand out spare keys to your apartment to every sad sack who knocks on your door?” he had asked as he left the next morning.

“Only the ones who don’t pay their heating bills,” she had replied, smiling as he kissed her goodbye. “But call me or text me before you come over tonight,” she had warned. “I might be working late.”

“Sure thing,” Peter had replied. But he hadn’t called or texted or used her second spare key to let himself into her apartment that night or any night. She hadn’t seen him in the apartment building hallways or anywhere else. That had been – what? Two weeks ago? Three? Did it matter? Maybe he moved out because he couldn’t pay the rent on top of not being able to pay his heating bill.

She dumps all the rest of the salade ingredients on top of the lettuce in the bowl, pours the vinaigrette dressing over it all, and mixes it up. This is not how salade nicoise is supposed to be made. You’re supposed to make the vinaigrette dressing, coat each ingredient with it, and then carefully arrange all the ingredients on top of the lettuce neatly on a plate. But she’s starving and there’s no one to notice or care if the salade is prepared properly and arranged neatly on a plate. She wolfs down most of the salade and pours the rest into the garbage.

She goes to the bedroom to change into her pajamas, robe and slippers. She opens the bedroom window a bit more. It’s starting to smell in here. It might be time to move soon. But what if Mick should decide to stay with her again? Will the landlord change the lock on her apartment door after she moves out? Maybe she should call Mick before she moves.

She opens the bedroom closet door and looks down at the pile of dirty, fluid-crusted clothes on the floor. Well, more than clothes, but she doesn’t think about that as she gingerly fishes the second spare key out of the pocket of the filthy jeans. She shuts the door and goes into the kitchen to hang the second spare key on the tiny hook by the door.

When her alarm goes off the next morning, she opens the bedroom window even more. She showers, puts on makeup, does her hair, and gets dressed. She looks at the second spare key hanging on the hook by the door as she leaves.

“But how did he write that note?” she wonders.