The downtown lights blazed in the evening air. Slouched behind the wheel, Ismael watched as Loretta\u2019s staff\u2014the few whose physical presence was deemed \u201cessential\u201d\u2014broke at the lobby door and hunched to their cars. Loretta, gone for 15 cold days. Working remote from her sister Daisy\u2019s place in Sacramento.<\/p>\n
Without his wife\u2019s presence, their Mission District apartment\u2019s old smells had returned. Paint and dust and water-soaked wood. The bedsheets smelled like Ismael\u2019s dirty hair. It had been his old man\u2019s painting studio, left to Ismael. Loretta\u2019s presence, her belongings, had given the place class. \u201cThis isn\u2019t what I thought marriage would be like,\u201d was all it boiled down to; what she had said in the end.<\/p>\n
Weekends, Ismael did okay. It was practically sanctioned to fill the hours with television and booze. Normal in these lockdown days. During the week, he\u2019d begun taking his dinner here, to Loretta\u2019s office. But today the local paper carried a photo of the Parks & Rec building they\u2019d rented for their wedding reception, its roof bashed in by a fallen eucalyptus. \u201cSF\u2019s Historic 1892 Roadhouse Damaged by Weather-Broken\u00a0Tree.\u201d<\/p>\n
5:10 p.m. He ran for it, sliding a little on the sidewalk. A swipe of Loretta\u2019s badge and he was inside. She\u2019d forgotten her work keys in an old hoodie of Ismael\u2019s.<\/p>\n
In the break room, he got a fresh pot of coffee started. The earthy smell of dripping dark roast made Ismael feel he\u2019d just opened a new book\u2019s creamy page.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d reverted to eating in the manner of the always-alone: noisily and too fast. There was always something tasty. But tonight, the communal refrigerator was empty. Just the crusted-top mustard, unloved salad dressings, and pimiento\u2013stuffed olives that had been there the whole time. He\u2019d need to cross a new line.<\/p>\n
In the cubicle farm, he moved briskly desk to desk. Witness to the cheap mementos from tropical honeymoons and package vacays. Lower drawers held ointments and plaque-spattered dental supplies. In IT Calvin\u2019s cable-filled drawer, he spied a pack of playing cards, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.<\/p>\n
Eureka! Old Mel, accounts receivable, kept a bottle of bourbon in the back of his filing cabinet. Ismael cracked the cap and sucked one mouthful, then another. Better. Good.<\/p>\n
Old Mel was more likely to smell the open container than clock the bottle\u2019s absence. Ismael sat the bottle on the break room counter. He splashed bourbon into someone\u2019s pink \u201cYass, Kween!\u201d mug and took a slug. The fine, syrupy feeling spread in his chest and limbs. He got an expired sack of microwave popcorn going.<\/p>\n
Loretta\u2019s sister Daisy was a second wife. Cherished and adored without any grind or drudgery. Her husband was an old guy, a good earner who couldn\u2019t believe his luck, snagging a hottie like Daisy. His kids didn\u2019t speak to him, so they were no problem. This guy was a contractor and a mechanic. Naturally, their home and rides were perfect.<\/p>\n
Coming here was a healing experience for Ismael. Something to tell his therapist about, although of course he\u2019d have to change most of the details. When she\u2019d asked what brought Ismael joy, he\u2019d come up empty. But this felt good. He was camera ready! He giggled, flashing jazz hands and dance-walking back to the workspace.<\/p>\n
Dumb Dahlia\u2019s reception station was littered with bride magazines. Ismael and Loretta\u2019s own wedding and reception had been a potluck. A picture of the venue all smashed in flashed in his mind and Ismael shook his head, hard, as if to obliterate the image.<\/p>\n
In Dahlia\u2019s shallow left-hand drawer, he found a box of garters. Confectionary green, peach, and blue. Underneath, to his shock, was his own wedding album. Affixed to the cover a Post-it, on which Loretta\u2019s handwriting said, \u201cNo bother returning!!\u201d<\/p>\n
His breath went shallow. Their smiles, his and Loretta\u2019s. The hopeful clothes. The faces of those happy guests. That cake.<\/p>\n
A sound like a cornered dog\u2019s whine leaked from him then. He tore the photos from the album. They made a trail behind him as he practically ran to Loretta\u2019s office.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d waited to breach her personal space. But now it was time.<\/p>\n
It was his wife\u2019s scent that sent him reeling. Neroli: orange blossom. Ismael\u2019s legs went boneless. He gripped her\u00a0gleaming desk, sank to the floor. It was so quiet he could hear the ticking of the microwave in the break room.<\/p>\n
Okay. Ismael stripped his pants, tight after two weeks of drinking and carb-heavy meals. Splayed them out like a chalk outline. Shirt, too.<\/p>\n
He used to be great at this. He slid the pack of playing cards from his pocket. Began to build a foundation. Triangular trusses were for amateurs. He worked fast, adding height with squares and right angles. The tower rose. He still had it.<\/p>\n
Sure, his marriage had been a house of cards. He\u2019d tried to focus on peace and not impede Loretta with any neediness that might impede the build. His drinking helped him keep a lid on his reliance on her. He still saw it that way. But to her, it was refusal to talk. Withholding of affection. Binge drinking.<\/p>\n
There came a sound: the jangling of keys. The door handle shook. Shook again. From his crouching position behind his house of cards, Ismael heard a key entering the lock.<\/p>\n
Instinct fueled his dive under the desk. The instant before the lock gave, he registered the explosions of the popcorn kernels. Faster. Faster. Like a firing squad in a village so close to home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The downtown lights blazed in the evening air. Slouched behind the wheel, Ismael watched as Loretta\u2019s staff\u2014the few whose physical presence was deemed \u201cessential\u201d\u2014broke at the lobby door and hunched to their cars. Loretta, gone for 15 cold days.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":19081,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[1386,361,3038],"class_list":["post-18311","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-divorce","tag-masculinity","tag-san-francisco","writer-patricia-quintana-bidar"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18311","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18311"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18311\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19085,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18311\/revisions\/19085"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19081"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18311"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18311"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18311"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}