Locator Service

I came home that night and put my purse on the credenza and turned on the lights. I could see through to the bathroom—the laundry hamper was almost full. The shirtsleeve of one of Kurt’s pajama tops was dangling over the side, out from under the lid. There were dirty dishes in the sink; no real food in the fridge. I sighed. I’d had a long day. A business-sized envelope was lying on the carpet in the middle of the room. Julie was written on it, in Kurt’s handwriting. Kurt wasn’t home, but he wasn’t supposed to be. The envelope was unsealed. Inside there was a single piece of ivory resume paper.

“MOVE,” it said. The letters had been cut from one of those sign-language cards the panhandlers pass out on the train. They were taped crookedly onto the paper like a ransom note. I walked over to the answering machine. There were no messages. Down on the street, an ambulance or a police car or something sped by, its siren blasting hard against the muffled sonance of the neighborhood. There was no mail stacked along the countertop.

I read the letter again. I didn’t want to move. I loved this apartment. I loved the way the snow in Central Park would collect those funky gray splotches in it from all the fumes hanging in the air. I loved the pushy cabbies. I loved the bulky deli sandwiches, I loved the bagels, I loved my job. I didn’t want to move.

I thought: maybe I should tell him.

David O'Gorman