Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. Thursday nights always begin with the
persistent scent of warm while and crisping tortiers. Our fruit
truck nor is hunched over the sidewalk beneath the halach
and Sodie lamp, the Chris Portland air already thick with
the promise of rain and to night, just like last week,
I'd elbow deep in a plastic tub of housemates seal.
So when Amy's phone, her personal cell, the one with
the chip flavender case and the screen always black, and
the counter buzzes against the truck's window shelf, she doesn't
look at me when she answers, doesn't even tip her
chin my way. There's a tiny beat of silence after
she says Hi, Yeah, I'll head up, sue in, and
then the phone snatch shot with an efficiency that punches
out any chance for a follow up. Her apron stinned
in three distinct places, all Pico de Gallo, sometimes a
tillow green across the hem, and what might have been
the shadow of Jilly oil if she hadn't wiped it.
I'm still rinsing my hands off when she enties it
with quick, nervous fingers. I'll do the supply of run,
Amy calls over her shoulder, the april drizzle already dot
her hair. She steps backward out of the truck's back hatch,
just the usual Thursday pick up. I'll be home before nine.
Want anything for dinner? Maybe Raymond. She's not quite making
eye contact, busy gathering stray corquyes and keeping her gaze
carefully fixed on the neon puddle of city street outside
the food truck. Register is still open. Thos peeking out
over the rim, but she doesn't touch it. Her wallet's
already stuffed into her pears, her phone cradled in her palm.
For a second, I think task, want to split, need
help with the heavy stuff, but the question dies somewhere
in my throat. Before supply runs were our little adventure.
I stood for sidewalks, half awake at seven a m.
Cradling sheet gas station coffee and arguing about the best
small vendors in the city. Before I always knew which
fom she was headed to, who she'd see on a
given day, which backedor to look for on a sun
at warehouse to night, though There's no mention of where
she's going, no order sheets taped to her phone case,
no delivery. Van Idling at the cub, she simply slides
into her weather creased Hondasivic, the one with the faded
eat local window decal, and makes her right out of
the law. The red glow of her tail light shudders,
and the rains mired street and vanishes. I wipe down
the counters in silence, fingers sticky with dried cilantra. By
the time I finished stacking sauce containers and lucking the
spent drum of friar grease to the alley, expect her
to call to say she's running later she needs help
with cases. When my own phone buses at eight fifteen,
it's only a push notification from our share of calendar
prep tammels for Friday mart her. She comes in just
before nine cheeks, too red for her usual dryer, hair
rumpled at the crown as if someone else's hands have
been at her scalp. There's not a single new box
under her Armino, crates of plastic bags stuffed with produce,
not even a waxy wax paper sleep from a bakery.
She's in the same genes, but change out her work
shirt for a black sweater. Hercent hits before she says
a word. Not the almond tang of dish soap, not
sweat or chipotlet or anything warm, but something syrupy and sharp, sweet,
almost floral, but darker underneath, like honey, with a strange,
musky depth, cut with the trees of cologne I can't place.
She drapes her coat over her chair before I can
say anything. Everything's sorted, they'll invers us. I swallow hard,
no deliver is to day. She tosses her hair too quickly.
Supplier was backed up. I just handled paperwork. We'll get
the boxes dropped off tomorrow. Later. When I crawl into bed,
that scent is so strongly crowds out everything, food, sheets,
even sleep. But by morning her side is cold. Before
all this, things fell simple. For maybe two years straight.
It was just me and Amy's side by side under
the humming florescence of our borrowed kitchen, the two of
us stitching our lives together through the shared rhythms of
flower heat and coffee fumes. She always set the playlist
dage as Cumby as an indie fook, and for a
few hours each morning with a city bailey waking. It
felt like we were sealed inside our own warm mold
onion peels stuck to her elbows should wink at me
across the prep table and mount the course to some psalm.
I'd forgotten and the only future we really needed was
the next doorder slip running nort was supposed to be
all about togetherness, about partners in something that was ours.
Every milestone we celebrated off us glowing Yelp review, a
little fray in clipping from that magazine spread them into
another market that this was real, that we were equals.
Amy wore blue nail polish the week we bought our
second fry and left smudges of it on every ledge
page we filled out that season. We had a rhythm
for bookwork. One of us would start the tally, tho
though would check the math, and in the off hours
we check greasy styrofoam take out in the living room,
half watching what Davis Show happened to be on Our
trust was the whole backbone. Everything in the open, all
calls and texts and schedules in a single Google calendar.
If something came up, we both heard about it. We
both showed up. If one of us closed out late,
the other came, no matter how cold the street or
how long the line. So when Amy announced, out of
nowhere late one Wednesday night that Thursday Runs would be
hers alone, I should have said something stronger. She'd pulled
the notebook from under her pillow, flipping past a miss
of scribbled recipes and cost notes. I'm just going to
take care of Thursdays on my own. The drive's long,
and they only want to work with me. Less confusion
that way. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Not
after three years of splitting runs. I half laughed. Since
when does Jealouscoe Foods or whoever not want more business.
It's not Jealousco. It's a new supplier. No further detail.
She tucked a coal behind her ear. A habit she
only does win nervous and focus the watermark in the
ceiling plaster. I can come if you want. I offered
as much out of habit as anything else. She shook
her head too sharp. No, it's easier for everyone if
I just take care of it. Trust me. She started
scrolling through her phone messages, flicking past faster than I
could read the previews. I caught a flash of looking
forward it before the locks green blinked on. After she
turned off her lamp, she kept her phone clutched against
her side, beneath the covers. That was the first fractury,
the first time she nudged me out of the kitchen,
a little crack in a tempo of our routine, but
I let her. It was a small ask, and she'd
never given me a reason not to believe her before.
The following Thursday played out almost identically. We wrapped her
early lined, dwindling with the rain. She checked her phone
before I'd even finished checking the last onions. I'm gonna
run and grab the new order, she announced. Keys already
in hand. Need a hand, I asked, more hopeful than anything.
She waved a dismissive hand. I've got it. I'll call
if it's anything big. She didn't make it sound like
an invitation. That night, just past nine, she came and
wearing a new scarf, a blue silk one I'd never
seen before, and the same strange scent wafted around her.
This time. I watched as she flinched away from my hug,
claiming she was just dicky from all the fruit crate.
I checked the kitchen in the morning. No new honey,
no new boxes, no sign of her delivery. When they asked,
she shrugged, bare faced. Dilbilla's didn't have to hold anything
to day. Amy's receipts, folded for the week, was blank.
That's when I noticed her phone habits changing too. She
started teking her screen away when I'd walk into the room,
a slow shuffle at first, typing with one hand while
springing sauce with the other. More and more little pins
went off. Half to midnight. I'd wake up to the
pale blue flash and find her shoulders hunched, face illuminated
by whatever text dread she kept close. One night, while
we lay together, her already curled towards the wall. I
heard her laugh softly as sharp in private. Something on
her screen. I prought myself on one elbow, trying for
a casual what's so funny? She snapped her phone shat,
not pausing for her just something for Marissa, mean about
pickled carrots. I waited for her to show me, she
rolled over instead. At times it felt like she was
raising me on purpose. One evening at a small business
mixer with all the familiar faces from surrounding cotts and trucks.
She excused herself made conversation to take a coal outside.
The room was packed, every one shouting recommendations for the
best late night doughnut spot. And for a while I
just drifted, jaw tight from one clump of people to another,
until I caught sight of her outside coat hunched up,
hand pressed tight to her ear Inside A man hovered
by the back wall, A tall, anular guy whose names
sat in the back of my mind unclaimed. His eyes
kept flicking in our direction. His stance shifting tads caught
my ear for some reason, he looked like he was
waiting for some one. When Amy returned, her face was
flushed and she kept her hand woven through her hair,
smoothing flyaways. She avoided the man as she ducked back
in angling her body away from the bar. We left
early that night, met with a headache, her texting under
the deashboard glow all the way home. I started second
guessing everything. I called the regular supplier, Jealousco Foods on
a Tuesday, just to confirm our next pickup. Jalisco's manager,
Fal sounded confused when I asked about Alpha's Thursday meetings.
We don't do after ires for any Once, she said,
you two always come together in the mornings. Haven't seen
either of you for two weeks? This something up. The
question landed like a dull blade. My answer was mumbled, no,
just double checking schedule stuff before I made up an
excuse to hang up. When Amy came home that night,
I asked her straight out, which supplier have you been
meeting Thursdays? I called Jaliscoe. They don't do runs after ires,
she exhaled loudly, more annoyed than guilty. It's not Jaliscoe.
It's complicated. Look, I'm sorting it out. Can you just
trust me for a minute. She was already half way
down the hall, not waiting for a reply. From then on,
our intimacy started to slip away by degrees. In bed,
she claimed headache's exhaustion early morning's always something that let
her turn just enough out of reach. She stopped leaning
against me on the couch. Her hugs at the end
of long work days became perfunctory, worn armed things with
the stiffness I didn't recognize. One morning, rifling through the
laundry basket for an apron, I paused a lip six
stains much in the sash, the red wasture and bolder
than anything Amy wore. Her usual was a pinkish coral
or clay gloss, something barely there. I pinched the cough
between my fingers, that syrupe spicy, sent rising again, and
folded it under her pillow. She never mentioned it. Sometimes
in the truck she laughed too loudly with certain customers,
a bubbling, easy sort of laugh. I hadn't herror from
her in ages at home. She brightened when a few
regulars came by, specially toll men with easy hands and
taste for our free based oak was frescas. Each time
she smile, a little wider, lean, a little closer. If
I tried to joke or tease with her, should clamp up,
glancing at her phone, always acting like she was chasing schedule.
I couldn't see. As much as I tried, I couldn't
get back and sink with her. It started with little things.
No more splitting up the end of day deposss. No
more shared supply, a list taped to the fridge, no
more scribbled recipe tweaked, passed back and forth on napkins.
Our evenings became parallel lines, each of us scrolling through
our own screens in separate corners of the couch, pretending
we couldn't feel the weight in the air. Once, while
turning out the truck for a deep clean, I came
across a fruit truck inventory slip dog eared and right
at the edge and the shelf above the register. On
the back in Amy's loopy the determined hand was a
neatly ink list of dates all Thursdays, stretching back about
two months. Next to each was a pair of initials
jay W. I waited until her next early night home
to bring it up, holding the slip in my fist
as she dumped her keys on the table. Who's j W?
I tried and failed as to sound casual. Her eyes
narrowed for the brief a sicken, and then she smoothed
her face. Jonah Worth, he runs a beekeeping co op
the de small batch honey, figured it could be good
for a summer special. Thursday meetings are just for taste testing.
I forgot to mention it before, but it's no big deal.
She watched me and blinking, You want to try the honey?
I can ask for a sample The explanation was half convincing,
just enough to loosen the not in my chest. But
as she shifted the topic card to what we should
order for dinner, I felt the unease settled right back
in Her phone, pinged again that night, a little after midnay.
When I rolled over to watch her, she just typed
with hell Lila pinched between her teeth, blanketing herself tighter
so I could only see the glow reflected in the window.
Every Thursday bled into the next, each one feeling down
near identical Amy, rushing out with her phone's knock in
her face, coming back with nothing but that syrup's wheat
musky scent in her hair and a different scuffer let
to go jacket each time, never a cotton or inverse,
or any proof she'd even see a supply That night.
For a stretch, I tried to talk myself down. I
forced as much trust into myself as I could muster.
Maybe she really did have a new order system, maybe
the honey deal would land us on some Best of
Portland summer list. But then, why all the secrecy, Why
no supplier willing to confirm, Why did she keep so
much to herself, and why did her body co away
from mine more and more, until I started feeling like
a ghost in my own tiny apartment. The only thing
that kept me seeing was work, the thuding music of
cutting boards, the familiar lattice of steam and prep routines.
Our clothes and checklists stayed the same, our rotation schedule untouched.
But the center was gone, hollowed out and tender, and
I kept replaying every Thursday, like an off cuisson on
a short loop. Every so often Amy would look up
from her phone and for a heartbeat seemed like she
might say something, some confessional, some reason that would make
it all fit. But the moment always up away, replaced
by her hustle for the door, her hand already on
her keys, her eyes skating past me, like I'd become
just another part of the background. It was a kind
of slowsification. The more evident a gather, the less certain
I felt. Was I inventing all of this? Was it
possible for someone to love you and look right through
you at the same time. One Thursday, at the tail
end of May, when the sky smeared to slate crate
six and never lightened again, I finished clean up alone.
Amy was gone before I'd finished refilling the hot saucepins.
She texted, runningly with the supplier love you, but nothing else.
That night, I lain bed, counting the words of the heater,
searching for the scent of honey on her pillow. It
was there, just faint enough to make me angry, a
trace of something sticky, sweet and not at all liars.
But then even our regulars had noticed the shift. Where's
Amy to day? They'd ask when she vanished from her
end of the line, Or you two fighting? If we
weren't joking the way we used to, all hustling out orders,
I'd make excuses she's sorting some new vendor stuff or
just slammed with Brooks. They'd nod, but their eyes lingered. Unconvinced.
I scrolled through our chef calender, obsessively looking for clues
and unloved meeting a critic, shorthand anything that would pin
down what she was actually doing. But the entries were
always vague. Thursday, pick up mitya w order, honey test
batch confirm at bar. At first, the word above flickered by,
and I ignored to see me. It was a mis key,
someone's rush type of a casual venue for supply meet ups.
But the more I thought about it, the more it
gnawed at me. Why a bar for ingredients? Every supplier
meeting we'd ever had was at a warehouse, a cave,
maybe a marketplace stall. Once I tried to bring it
up testing the waters during a lull between rushes, Hey,
do you want me to check out that honey you mentioned?
I could meet Jay w next week? She stiffened, hands,
flinching at the line she was slicing. No, I've got it.
He's picky about who he selse to. I'll pitch you
on it when the time comes. She looked right at me,
her face set in polite, distant patience, the same custom
of service masks she wore with bushy distributors. Stop worrying,
We're good. A couple of times I fantasized about just
following her. I pictured myself in the civic shadow, watching
as she drove somewhere out of the city, ducking into
a side door at some industrial park, trading paperwork and
taste test philes with a bearded tippie in overalls. Each time,
I told myself it would amount to nothing, that I
was just being paranoid. But then on another Thursday laden June.
She came back even later, face shining as glassy. Her
clothes reeked of the same syrupee deep sweet odor. But
now there was another layer beneath wine maybe, and something sharp, floral,
almost peppery. I caught a flash of red lipstick on
her neck s much to the collar boom. The next
morning she left her apron dripped over a dining chair.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands,
tracing the lipstick mark. I pressed my nose to the cloth,
that strange, sweet, heavy smell, clinging as stubbornly as glue.
I dropped the apron back on to the chair and
sat elbows on knees until my ch aye ache from
grinding my teeth. Just then, her phone buzzed from the bedroom,
one bright, insistent time I'd come to dread. I listened
sharply and shuffled out, unlocked it, and wandered wordlessly into
the bathroom, her voice low and muffled as she answered.
She didn't close the door, just pulled it nearly shut.
So old I heard was the steady, secret murmur of
her breath. For the rest of the day, she avoided
me if I spoke, she answered in fragments, Can you
get onions to check the fryer oil? Everything deflected That night,
as she stood at the sink, water running too hot
over her hands. I set the apron on the counter
beside her, whose lipstick She flinched barely, then shrugd sampled
new honey, the supplies wife selt beauty products on the side.
I tried to shade, got clumby. She didn't look at
me as she rinsed the plate off and set it
dripping on to the rack. Don't get weird about it.
When I lay beside her that night, her back was
an inch father from mine than usual, a cold line
of space stretching between us. If I confronted her, she
always had some patchwork story, a friend's joke, a sales pitch,
a marketing scheme, and it was never clear enough to
pin it down, never soft enough to feel like the
whole truth. Each explanation left out something where she'd really
been who she laughed with the two A M Why
nor honey ever showed up? Why I was suddenly supposed
to believe that our life, our business, our partnership was
stronger for shutting me out? Still I kept trying to
catch her in a slip our ship. World, one so
easy and open, had become a fog of half answers
and closed doors, and every stray password, every late night
chuckle behind a locked bathroom, every lingering smell that didn't
fit the ordinary sparked another argument inside my chest. Thursday
nights deepened in their ache, accumulating new layers of suspicion.
Each week, the city seemed to conspire with a sixty
shadows longer, the rain, more persistent, street let's dimmer, My
own footsteps muffled, as if I was moving deeper into
someone else's story. I started to feel as if I
was the one being erased. I started to feel as
if I was the one being erased. The worst part
wasn't anger, It was drifting. Most mornings, I'd moved through
our kitchen as if following someone else's choreography, muscle memory,
snapping my body through every routine. Yet the center, the spark,
all that fun and easy rhythm between us was flattening
out into something more like rote choreography and partnership. It
started with the silences, then built into walls. Thursday crept
up the city's silver drizzle, looking every edge, and I
was operating on nothing but habit preppin' massa humming, watching
the clock more than I should have. At three forty,
well before our usual clean up call, Amy was already
shoving her street shoes back on. All the energy she
used to pour into the counter, cracking jokes, tweaking spice
mixes was gone, replaced by restless glances at her phone. Hey,
I can close up if you want, I tried, too soft.
He was justice in the cap before us and hum
around us. City sense pouring in the registered drawer was
already zip shut. Her apron was wiped, folded, not hanging
like usual. But she didn't answer, just fish something out
of her purse with a practiced little twists and thumbed
in a new text, her lips twitching while she waited
for the reply. Finally, she grinned a flash of teeth
she tried to swallow. I found my vorse. Who's texting?
She stilled Jaye Doubly, she said flat, he's confirming meeting
at that I'll tape him. Sometimes they keep honey batches
and kegs more temperature control or something. Anything you want
me to ask, I was pushing it, but needed to
hear something, anything real. She shook her head quickly, forcing
a smile. No, I'll do tasting notes. You just get
home early, Alburn take out for a second. She lingered
there in the doorway. Neither was moving. The rain had
let up, her hayd still damp against her neck. She
seemed poised to say something. Her gaze flickered to my mouth,
then back to the phone. But whatever it was, she
pocketed it, swung out the door, and the hatch clan shut.
Before I knew she was gone. I watched her out
the window, just a shape under he a city lamp,
hurrying to the civic. I could see the blue scough
tied loose at her neck. She fiddled with her phone,
laughing stop, then called some one. I leaned closer. The
rain twisted her voice into static, but her face, eager, open,
was softer than I had seen it for weeks. The
joy on her lips was surgical, precise, and it made
by all rise. I stayed cleaning until every inch of
the truck gleamed above the smell of lysol, too tense
to sit still, too exhausted to fully admit howpasthetic I
had become. When I finally trudged home, the window was
dark and empty. I roasted in silence, reapling it all
the scarf the way she smiled for her phone, the
apologetic told of her shoulders as she shut the hatch
at eight fifty four, right on time, as always. She
came in, cheeks shining and hair pulled up into rough
bonn No take out, no honey, no conversation. She kissed
my forehead automatically and went straight to the shower. Left
alone with her purse on the table, I hovered by it.
I shouldn't have, but I did. I zipped it just
enough to pique nothing, no evidence, not even a stray
napkin or a bottle gilt prickled inside me. So I
zipped it up and stared at the rainy window. Was dead,
feeling small. Friday was supposed to be our rosette day.
We do early bakery pick together, then dive into a
round of selsus and fried batch testing, low keyagging over salt.
That Friday, she showed up late, claiming traffic on burnt Eide.
She moved quieter than usual, methodical, enclosed off, never once
looking at me except ask where the new cutting bows were.
I tried to break the ice with a dumb story
about a regular who tried to pay with the vintage
baseball cards, but she just nodded, already scraping onion skins
into the compos Her phone buzzed and she turned her
back to me, shoulders rolling forward, answering and clipped muffled murmurs.
After our shift, something finally snapped inside me. We were
at the apartment table with seats scattered, and I caught
her tracing shape on the margin of a supplier Invose,
were things weird at the suppliers last night? I tried
working how to keep my voice light? She dropped her pen. Weird?
How I mean any reason you didn't bring back anything?
Can I help next week? Or would it be better
if I called a head made it easier? She pressed
her palm to her forehead. Why are you on this,
she snapped, force, slow and trembling. It's not complicated. Some
things are better when only one of us handles them.
Trust me. The words stung more than I care to admit.
We always did every part together. Just this one thing, please,
I've got it. The finality in her tones gave me
more than anything else. She pocketed the receipts and pushed
back from the table off to rinse a mug that
didn't need rinsing. The next Thursday, I found reasons to
circle the block as I waited for her. Nerves in
my throat, I told myself, I give her the benefit
of the doubt, no spying, just an honest coincidence. If
I saw which way her car went, may be proved
my suspicions totally unfounded. But when she drove off, her
window already down, she made a left to not toward
any suppli as we'd ever use, but toward the river
towards downtown. I walked slow and tense, the city feeling
wrong around me. I found myself ducking past the window
of a wine bar set back from the street, with
a sign painted and goldly for the barrel room. A
string of yellow bulbs flickered above the archway, reflected in puddles.
I almost left, but then I saw her, amy laughing,
leaning close to a tall chist at head ma'am with
broad shoulders. I recognized him at once, the same guy
from the business mixer, the one watching us like he
wanted to say something, the one whose name took greejay worth.
He had his hand on Amy's elbow, steering her toward
the back. She tipped her head, said something I couldn't hear,
and laughed so brightly it felt weaponized. The way she
looked at him wasn't business like, not the formal clip
patient should have with the vendor. She looked alive there
at animated, lips, glossy. She reached out and smoothed her
hand over his shirt, out in public, as if it
was the most natural thing in the world. He slung
his arm over the booth and leaned and whispering something
in her ear that made her drop her head, grinning.
Even from outside, quinted up against the cold, I could
see the intimacy of the bubble of closeness, the un
herrowed comfort, a bottle of wine between them, the glasses
half full. At one point she reached for his roosts
and he let his hand rest, their fingers trailing over
her knuckles. It was a familiarity I hadn't seen from
her in months. When another group came and laughing too loud,
Amy pressed herself closer to Jonah, as if to close
out the rest of the world. The angle of her
hips was turned inward. The look she gave him was negotiations,
it was affection, It was desire. My stomach twisted so
violently that I nearly lost my balance. I watched for
maybe an ire rooted there in the wet night, hot
jack ammering slow, anine. The coal pressed through my jacket,
but I could barely feel it. The numbness was all internal.
At the end, as they stood to leave, his hands
laid a round her waist, and she let herself melt
into him, nestling under his arm near the door. Even
with street lights and traffic moving by in waves, I
could see them pause, just shy of the doorway. She
turned up, touched his cheek, and he kissed her, long
and gentle hand on her jaw, not fast, not furtive, public, affectionate,
but mistakable. Only then did I turn and stumble away,
skin tingling, blood loud in my ears. The sound of
my heart was the only thing I could hear all
the way home. I let myself into her apartment on autopilot,
everything looking sharper, and enter her damp jacket over the chair,
A single glass in the sink, the faint wheet musky
scent drifting from the bathroom as if she'd bathed them,
the memory of what I just witnessed. When she came home,
humming a bit off key, the first thing she did
was slip her shoes off and meet my gaze. There
was a glow to her, her hair, loser, eyes, shining,
lips kiss clean. She started to say sorry late night,
but I barely heard the words for the first time.
I didn't answer, didn't force a smile, didn't suggest we
order in no water show. Instead, I walked past her
to the bedroom, shut the door, and lay there in
the darkness, questions roaring inside my chest. I heard water
running in the bathroom, the hush of her hands as
she moved round the kitchen, moving as if everything was
perfectly normal. But none of it was normal any more.
The secrets had weight now. Friday morning, I couldn't look
her in the eye. We prepped in silence, every knife
stroked between us. When customers came, I tried, at least
jack like it was just another day. Amy slid right
into her familiar roll, bright, funny, all quick, wooded charm.
I wondered how long she'd been doing this, making me
believe the world outside the truck was still ires even
as she'd carved that whole secret ires. She was texting
more openly now, not even glancing my way, thumb speeding
across the keyboard. Once, when she burst out, laughing alone
at nothing, I froze bachelor Madare. She caught my eye,
tucked her phone face down and said you should have
seen this meme Marru's ascent. I didn't reply. She went
back to work. Privately. I started cataloging her absences. Every Thursday,
new clothes and new flourished to her make up, sometimes
a faint shimmer I'd never seen before. Once I found
a receipt from a bakery near the barrow room to
coss us one black coffee ittateed a Thursday morning, not
our usual supplier, not in our neighborhood. When I asked
about it, she just shruged. Dropped by for a simple
something for next week's brunch menu. You weren't up yet.
Another night, I forgot to close out our shared laptop
and saw browser tabs open to events bases, small wineries
with tasting rooms near the East Bank, all in that
same narrow corridor. She became irritable. If I asked why,
said it was for promotion, maybe summer partnerships. No details,
only avoidance. I even tried texting her Thursday afternoon and
testing her story, and need me to pick anything up
on the supplier run, she replied instantly, all handled enjoy
a night of a brutal sarcastic Anger started to work
its way under my skin, Anger at her, at myself,
at my own inertia. How long had I convinced myself
that these scraps of explanations were enough? The last Thursday
before everything broke, she barely bothered with the story. It's
just a late meeting, she said, sliding her best arrands, delicate,
drap crystal things through her ear lobes, checking her reflection.
She wore a shot blazer, something that drew the line
of her shoulders, sleek and deliberate, paired with the faint
glimmer of the same deep red lipstick I found smeared
on her apron. I stood in the hallway, keys clutch tight,
pretending to look for change in the dish by the door.
She brushed by, grabbing her purse. So do you want
me to? She cut me off, All business, I said,
I've got it, okay, please, she met my gaze for
a moment. Something brittle and bruced in her eyes, a
fracture I had never seen before. And then she was gone,
footsteps quick against the stairs. When the door shut, I
finally felt the anger cut through the hazeer pane. I
had to see for myself, once and for all, if
all this agony came from nothing, or if the truth
was as ugly as it felt. So I waited five minutes,
crowd my jacket, and headed out into the sodden blue
darkness of July, not even caring if she saw me.
I kept back half a block behind, trailing the civic
as she drove across the city. When she turned, I
kept walking, Every step went tight as piano wire, praying
for her to prove me wrong. But she parked two
blocks from where I had watched her before. I hung back,
hot pounding as she climbed out, straightened her blazer, and
all but glided down the sidewalk to the glowing doorway
of the barrel room. There under the golden bulbs was
Joana waiting, impatient, nervous, then brightening with a smile that
was far too familiar. She went straight into his arms,
lingering there, both of them swain so close it made
my hand shake. They went inside, not looking back. Once
I crossed over to the opposite sidewalk, moving into the
cover of a closed flower shop, hot pounding, with a
certainty of everything I didn't want to admit. I watched
them through the window, two silhouettes at a table in
the corner, framed in light, and laughed at that looked
nothing like business. Their body as moved an easy concert,
hands touching, eyes meeting head, stepped together in private conversation.
They drank wine. They ordered free to something with tiny,
artful garnishes, and they watched as Jonah lifted a gloss
to her lips, and she let him tip it up
for her, crinning, careless, alive but odd and I were
in I saw her hands lie behind his neck. He
leaned forward, kissed her slow and sure. She kissed him
back as fluttering clothes lifts parted. Her body language was gentle, open,
exactly what I hadn't felt from her in months. The
sight hollowed me out, leaving nothing but cold rop it.
There was no business angle, no honey tasting, no supply ideal,
only her caught in some one else's orbit. When they
finally stood, bundled up in the drizzle, he draped his
jacket over her shoulders, bent to kiss her again. She
turned to say something, laughed, and then they walked away,
two heads a bout together under the blow of city lights.
I let them go, crossing the street slowly, my shoes
soaking through. Every certainty I'd ever had slipped away, replaced
by the ugly final clarity of what I'd seen. There
was no explanation that could fit this, no joke, no
marking plan, nothing left to savage. That was the moment
I knew bone deep that anything I'd thought we shared
our partnership are trust. Even the smallest joke was a lie,
hollowed up by her secrets, by the sharp, musky sweetness
that was mine. I let myself into the apartment quietly,
The achemachest dragged behind me like something heavy and soaking wet.
The kitchen was dark except for the humming blue nightlight
above the range, barely enough to outline the unwashed marks
on the empty spot where Amy's apron had draped only
eys before. My hand shook so badly it took me
through tries to work off my jacket I pressed my
knuckles hard to my eyebrown and stood in the silent kitchen,
barely breathing, just lessening, waiting for her key in the lock,
a sound I dreaded now, almost as much as I
was desperate for ansis. But the world didn't give me that. Instead,
it gave me the clock taking to midnight, the steady rain,
needing the fire escape. Time stretched thin and bertle as
I paced the length of our crump living room back
and forth, stopping only to jab at the framed best
of Portland's certificate in the wall. My own face smiled
up from inside the glass, bright and oblivious beside hers.
I eventually landed on the battered arm of the couch,
half crushed by a pile of discarded cookbooks. It was
ires before I heard her the door, first to hushed
voices in the hall, too muffled to identify, then the
scrape of her shoes on the mat, a muted creak.
As she came in. She paused, and the entry keys
dropped one at a time, then muttered, shitted as her
purse tumbled open. She tried to tiptoe, but there was
no way to move quietly in our place. I sat
as still as the furniture, fighting a wave of nausea.
She smelled of wine and that bright alien perfume, the
one eyed trace so many times on her collar, now
unmistakably foreign. Her silhouett drifted quickly to the bathroom door,
left slightly a jaw, water running, the faint rhythm of
her washing her face as had to raise the evening.
I weeded. When she emerged, I was still on the couch,
my arms folded tight, every muscle brace for the moment
she'd finally noticed what I knew. She patted across the rug,
startled when she saw me upright, maybe surprised that I
wasn't already asleep, or just that I saw her at all.
Oh you're up late, she said, forcing cheer. I thought
you'd be asleeper, now I know, I said, my voice
barely more than a croak. She froze midstep, eyes narrowing,
lips parted in some silent shock. Though she must have
known what I meant, but she played her role a
second longer, ducking here behind her ear gaze skating sideways.
No what the trimmer in her question was small practice.
I leaned forward, hand shaking, I saw you Amy the
wine bar with joanah Worth. I'd never said his name
allowed to her before. It echoed ugly and unreal in
the little room. She didn't respond at first, or maybe
she did. Her entire body let go, crumpling into the
arm chair opposite like she'd been punched. She dug the
heels of her hands into her eyes and breathed out once.
I washed her shoulders quick beneath a thin swater. Finally
she looked up, her voice trembling. It wasn't supposed to
happen like this. I couldn't laugh, couldn't cry. How was
it supposed to happen? Then? Was I supposed to just
keep pretending? A kind of keening sound broke from her chest,
and she pressed her fists to her heart, like she
was keeping it from falling out. I never wanted to
hurt you, I swear it just God. I kept telling
myself it would end that it was just it was stupid,
something small. Then it wasn't. I snapped larder than I expected.
YE made me look like an idiot. The lies, the stories.
Every Thursday, hell long. She went chewing her thumb nail raw.
Months since the winter event, I thought it would wear off,
but every time it felt new. I didn't mean to
push you out. I just I needed to feel wanted again.
I guess like I mattered to someone. The words stung
as much as the facts. So this is my fault,
because you needed something I didn't give. Tears pulled in
her eyes, and this time her voice was so small
I almost missed it. No, No, you were always here,
always steady. I don't know what's wrong with me. She
saw pans crumpling in her lap. Her entire posture collapsed.
I stowed, unable to sit in the same place as
her confessions. My throat burned with rage and heartbreak. In
a hollow, desperate want to rewind everything you could have
told me, I said, but the words fell flat. I
thought this was ire as the truck, this life, was
any of it real? She shook her head fast, as
if that could scatter the mess between us, everything untild.
I didn't want this. I just couldn't stop. Please, I'm sorry,
I'm so so sorry. The air in the apartment into nothing,
the walls closing in around her, heaving breaths, and my
stunned silence. I stared at her, hardly able to recognize
the person I thought I loved, Unable to find even
the scraps of what we used to be. I wanted
to screen, I wanted to break something, to demand some
kind of sense from her, to make her feel the
weight of witch she'd taken. But I only managed I
can't do this. My voice drys paper. She sobbed harder,
culling forward as if she could hide in her own arms.
I watched every muscle shaking until it was clear there
was nothing left to wrench free from the ruins between us.
We set that way for a long time. I stared
at the wall, her outline blurry at the edges. Every
sound outside, the drip of rain, a far of car horn,
felt louder than the silence swallowing our living room. After
a while, she choked out one last tried explanation, But
I was already up, moving around the apartment with a
slow mechanical purpose of some one dismantling their own life.
I pulled my overnight back from under the bed, packed
clothes without care. My hands moved almost by themselves, grabbing
socks and shirts, my toothbrush, a few chargers, the battered
Denham jacket that still smelled like salsa's and frier oil.
I forced myself to breathe through the rush of images.
Heard the truck window, laughing, her beside me at the
cook top, fingers grazing mine, verse by s jar. She
stayed in the living room, silent, crying softly into her hands.
She didn't follow. I zipped the bag and slung it
over my shoulder. The apartment felt airless, everything tinged with
the sweetness I had grown to hate. I left my
set of keys in the edge of the kitchen counter,
next to the open food truck cound to our shared
whirl left behind in this columns and digital reminders. My
phone buzzed and I thummed out a brief, flat message
to r J, the only friend we shared, barely reading
my own words, not coming to the truck to morrow,
Tell Amy to handle prep. R J would not ask questions,
not yet. I stepped into my shoes by the door,
hans trembling as I tied the laces. I looked back
once toward the living room. Maimie slumped in the arm chair,
knees up, gaze on nothing. The distance between us was
wide and final. I stepped into the hole quietly, shutting
the door behind me with salt hollow click. The corridor
was dimmed, the carpet rough under my feet, lie timing,
I walked slow, not looking back. I took the stairs
down to the sidewalk, brain tapping my shoulders, the bag heavy.
I stood there, half lit by the nion of a
twenty four hour laundromat, breathing fog into the night, feeling
the press of everything lost, bearing down through the soles
of mus shoes. I looked once at the fruit truck
park down the street. It's bright, pained, dult by dawn mist.
I stickered not logo, shadowed on the rain dun kerm.
The windows were dark, the city soft round the edges,
and for the first time it felt entirely herrors had
closed up relic as something I'd once believed was unbreakable.
The well felt shaky and too sharp, but I knew
exactly what was real and what wasn't. I found an
empty spot by the cob, set my back down, and
let my breath catch in the chill. The city moved
on around me, indifferent and shining. I watched the sky
lighten new daging over the silent truck, and for a
long moment, I just stood there, knowing that the one
thing I counted on was only ever partly true. Eventually,
the early city traffic started rumbling past the corner, headlights
cutting trails through the mist. Life were ready surging back
into motion, as if nothing at all had shifted. I
stood numb, my hands red and tingling from the cold,
watching every figure who passed with a kind of distance, exhausted.
Wonder how easily every one else moved forward half freely
day into Baker's check, their phones, un locked, bikes, everyone
but me. I couldn't make sense of the stillness I'd
left behind, the apartment, the track, the shared rituals that
scaffolded every day under the fractured belly of dawn. Nothing
tether of me except the weight in my throat and
the hot dull ache along my temples. I tried to
calculate what happened now in the world. Would Amy shut
down the truck for the day, or pretend push on
past it, scrobe my name off the payrolls, and let
the city crowd by the window without knowing what had
shotted behind the counter. Would she told Joan I had
found out? Did she even need to? Or had she
already planned for this part, the extracting, the sudden subtraction
of our life. I pressed my palm into my eyes,
dragging it down my face, Feeling more tight that I
could remember ever being. Nothing, felt ready to move forward,
yet standing here was impossible, and going anywhere else made
even less sense. The truck was silent, a shell. My
pockets as I checked them out of habit held nothing
but my phone and a crumpled receiptd hind stamp from
two days ago at Corner Cafe, when everything had still
felt salvageable. I flicked my phone out, checked the home
screen for any new messages. Nothing from Amy, nothing from
mar J. Just a single and read email from the
supplier asking about invising on Honey that never existed. That
thought made me shudder with something almost close to laughter.
Clip him raw, Honey, all that theater, all those stories,
and for what I'd believed them, because I had wanted to,
needed to, because lighting suspicion in meant risking the loss
that now sat so clearly in my hands. Through the
rising light, I could see the truck's window stickers peeling
at the corners, the faint hand prints where we both
pressed for warmthong cold nights. A single to go cup
stood abandoned in the ledge of regulars, maybe or Amy's
yesterday afternoon room, stained faintly with lipstick the wrong shade.
I let my gaze graze over all of it, every
small detail that yesterday would have meant belonging, but now
only ached the pointlessness of holding on. Time moved strange,
and the streets stuttering past, then slowing. While I stood there,
my shoulders ached under the back, so I shifted hissis
looking up into the gray blue above. Someone out walking
a dog pulls to nod, offered a brief smile. I
tried to nod back, but I think it came out twisted, unpracticed.
The dog sniffed my shoes, then wandered away, tail swinging,
and its owner never looked back. For too long, I
have heard body lost between instinct and intention. I ran
through use the sugistics were to go, who to call?
Whether I even wanted to eat? Every moment in my
mind shadowed by what waited up in that apartment. The
calender still opened to our shared plans, the old photos
in the fridge, Amy's figure hunch small in that battered
arm chair. Was she still crying? Was she already texting him?
Did she want me to come back? Or was it
relief that I had finally made the hard part easy.
I wondered if she would try to call me, maybe
sent some last message of comfort or explanation. But my
phone stayed silent. The world wanted nothing from me. Now,
accept to move. An ambulance wailed somewhre close. A bus
dragged it breaks two blocks down, letting off a herd
of commuters in khaki and headphones. Sunlight, knife for rent
in the clouds, hit in the crumb of a passing
costs so hard it made my eyes water. The food
truck two car lents away caught the light for a second,
gold and dull, then only itself again, just a battered
empty box. I pulled my cup closer, shivering a little
now as the adentleman sank into something colder, empty. Every
cell in my body wanted to go back, to have
one last argument, to demand a different story, to raise
everything that had just happened in force Amy back into honesty,
bushea well, But there was nothing left to fight for.
She'd made her choice. I'd forced the truth into light.
No mada. How I replayed in my mind what I
could have done, what I should have pushed for, when
I should have asked, opressed, or trusted less or trusted more.
None of it changed the final undeniable reality. I shifted
my grip on the back, pulling up the strap where
it bit intim My palm movement was all that was
left for a long, stretched, hoppy I looked down at
my shoe's damp, streaked with city crime, one lace frayed,
nearly threw, and then back up the block toward the avenue,
where the noise of the city thickened into something that
sounded enough like normal life to be bearable. Amy somewhere
overhead was waking in a new future without me. Our
j reply finally buzzed in just three words, she okay, man,
and nothing else. I let the screen go dark without answering.
I wanted to look back, but forced myself not to
forward across the drainage puddles into the quiet rob of traffic,
away from the old world shape I shared labor and
the fiction of trust. The morning press wet against my
cheeks as I walked, first yel then tore, each step,
separating me finally, from everything we'd called iOS, the city
stretched open in front of me, new and hollow, cold
and bray, and I blended into it, just another face
letting go, and that is the end. Thank you for listening,
and I will see you in the next one.