Enough to Miss Christmas

A taxi dropped me off at my stuffy apartment with half the day still remaining. I live in Arlington, Virginia across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. in a small one bedroom apartment in a sixteen story high rise. It is old but reasonably well kept and furnished. I can even spy Key Bridge from my ninth floor bathroom if I stand on the toilet. The building has a rapid turnover rate, catering to the military and I swear my quarters have so many coats of paint the space is reduced by half. Adequate is the best adjective I can think of, certainly nothing more positive.

I busied myself with clothes washing and delayed chores and tried not to ruminate too much over the recent happenings. There was a dull feeling in my stomach that something was missing and it was all I could do to struggle through my mundane chores. Paul telephoned but I was grocery shopping and missed his call. I couldn't believe the disappointment I felt.

When we connected later, he was calling from the airport, on his way to San Francisco. With the time difference and our busy schedules, he'd delay calling again until the weekend when he'd be back in Boston. The idea of not hearing from him for two full days weighted me down like a stone but I gleaned a drop of pleasure from the disappointment inferred in his voice as well.

As I was readying for bed, my cell phone rang. I was sure it was Paul calling back so I tripped and bumped around in my birthday suit, looking for the instrument. My birthday suit was appropriate; today was my fortieth birthday. I hadn't told Paul, fearful he'd hire the New York Philharmonic to play Happy Birthday outside my bedroom window.

"You shit!" my sister exclaimed. "Where are you?"

"In Virginia. In bed . . . practically," I answered as I stood in my living room naked and shivering.

"You were ten miles away from me and didn't stop by! I can't believe you!"

 I'm sorry," I said. I'd hoped to call first and explain to my sister why I didn't stop and see her but she beat me to it.

"You're always saying you're sorry! It's time you buckled down and stopped doing the damn things you're sorry about. You owe me a first class explanation . . . In detail!"

"I guess you visited Ma," I answered.

"I do that, several times a weeks."

I ignored her cutting comment. "She told you I was there?"

"I didn't believe her at first, especially when she said you weren't alone. I kept telling ma you were in Virginia, but she was insistent." Suzie added, "I'm glad you got to see her on a good day. There aren't many of those. Now, spill your guts. What is going on with you?"

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R. E. Derouin

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