“David used to sell apples by the side of the road when he was a young boy. He was very creative as a child. He’d always find some use for whatever came his way.”
George’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Even though tempted to read the text message, he decided not to when he saw the judgmental look on Irene’s face. He made sure to smile politely at her, to underline his courteous manner.
“The secret is to brush the crust with egg whites. It makes the crust crispy.”
George pretended to care and nodded his head accordingly. He was just about to ask for the recipe when his phone vibrated once more.
He reached for his phone. “Excuse me.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a busy man,” Irene said.
George wondered if the last remark was meant as an insult, or as a gesture of understanding. However, as soon as he saw the message, he couldn’t care less. He recognized the phone number from this morning. The message however, was blank, completely free of words.
George turned his head and saw Trisha standing in the hallway. She appeared to be hiding from Irene, and was out of the elderly woman’s view. She had her cell phone in her hand, and the screen was facing George’s way. It was too far away for him to make out the words, but he could tell she wanted him to see a list displayed on a white background. Trisha kept staring back at him with a face of horror and disbelief. She looked like a young child who’d stumbled into the wrong bedroom and caught her parents in the act. She seemed appalled and terrified at having discovered the truth. Then George noticed his reflection in the hallway mirror, and realized he had the same look on his face.
George then looked at the first text message Trisha Boyle had sent him.
23 WOLVES
Tuesday evening
Her eyes were wide open, but she had nothing to see except for darkness; the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the clouds.
She sat with her back against the sloping tree trunk, her hands tight around a large branch she held across her chest. Hearing a low, cracking sound escaping the dark woods, she shuddered and rose to her feet. The branch high up in the air, she was ready to swing.
She feared wolves were closing in on her, so she leaned directly against the tree trunk and kept swinging the branch back and forth.
“Go away!” she screamed as loudly as she could.
She eventually lowered the branch and sat down, her back once again against the rough embrace of the tree.
Suddenly, she heard another cracking sound, but this time, the sound was closer. She jolted once more and jumped to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain assaulting her ankle. The sound was too loud to have been caused by wolves.
“Is that you?” Her voice shook.
She was met with silence.
She dropped the branch on the ground as she knew she would have no chance to defeat him in a fight. And she couldn’t run away from him—she could hardly walk. Her only chance was to swallow her pride and beg for her life, hoping he would forgive her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she lied.
She tried her best to cry as loudly as possible, hoping he’d feel sorry for her.
“I was just so angry with you,” she said in a quivering voice. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
She made sure to breathe frantically, so she would sound as she were sobbing.
“I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” she said and kept pretending to cry.
24 RELATIONSHIPS
Tuesday evening
George Stanton and Trisha Boyle had enjoyed a fine meal together and were now occupying a table in the center of the hotel bar. George felt he was overdressed for the occasion. He regretted wearing the suit vest, as it made him look pretentious. George felt he was on display, and that he came off as a strange foreigner with a much younger wife. However, to his delight, Trisha Boyle was at least an inch shorter than he. George hardly ever had the pleasure of feeling tall in the presence of others. Trisha Boyle had insisted the two of them were to have a drink together—at the expense of Fare Airlines.
At first, he thought her behavior was inappropriate, as she seemed so happy and enthusiastic in this time of grief and concern. But on the other hand, why should people who lose their lives in plane crashes matter more than, for example, the people who perish in traffic accidents—which happens every day.
Not to mention all the people who die each year from the indirect cause of poverty. How many homeless people had lost their lives in the US this past year? George wondered if the only reason people felt empathy toward the victims of a plane crash was because they could identify with the situation and were glad their planes weren’t the ones that had crashed. In that case, the extraordinary empathy toward aviation victims was merely a concern for one’s own safety and welfare.
George pretended to look at the drink menu, but he wasn’t contemplating what drink to order. He knew what to order, and he knew his choice would provoke the much more energetic Trisha Boyle.
“So, what are you having, George?”
“I’ll just have a glass of water.”
“What…” Trisha mumbled and looked as if she was about to cry.
George began to feel guilty. He felt he’d somehow wronged Trisha Boyle, who currently stared back at him with sad puppy eyes. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
Trisha’s shoulders dropped. “Is it against your religion?”
George was puzzled by the question, and he wondered how the attentive Trisha Boyle could ever consider him as a religious person.
“No, it’s against my better judgment.”
“Screw that. You’re having a drink, mister.”
She got up and left the table before he had any chance to object. Seeing her order drinks at the bar (and apparently, engaging in small talk with the bartender) made him ask himself his reason for still being single.
Is it because I don’t drink alcohol? Is that why I’m still single?
Trisha returned shortly after with two cocktails in her hands. The sight of the forest green liquid made George frown.
“What are we having?”
“It’s a Fallen Angel,” Trisha said with far too much enthusiasm.
“What’s in it?”
“Alcohol.”
“And?”
“And some green stuff. I don’t know. I just liked the name. Would you have preferred if I’d gotten you a Black Russian? Have you ever had a Black Russian, George?”
George thought his co-worker had a cunning smile on her face, so he made sure to say as little as possible.
“You ever had Sex on the Beach?” Trisha asked him with the same smile.
“It makes you wonder who came up with all those names, huh?” he asked.
Drunk people, George was just about to add.
“Fun people,” Trisha said, beating him to the punch.
Trisha got her cell phone from her purse, and began typing rapidly.
About ten minutes later (and after too many sips of the sour green liquid), George reflected on what part he’d played in the exchange with Trisha Boyle. Against all odds, she hadn’t spoken a single word since she took out her cell phone. For a brief second, George actually thought of leaving, and wondered if she’d even notice. But just then, she suddenly looked at him.
“How does my hair look?” Trisha asked him.
Well, since you’re the one who brought it up, your haircut kind of reminds me of a Lego man. Did an actual hairdresser put you up to this?