Nothing More

Man, I feel old.

What the heck would we do without technology? I’m ashamed of my reliance on it, but at the same time I cringe at the thought of having to find a phone book and search for the number to my work.

Man, we humans are spoiled.

Scratch that, we Americans are spoiled. There are many, many places in the world where people have never even seen an iPhone, and here I am pondering my existence without Apple products.

I have it pretty damn easy.

I google the number for Grind, and when I call the line goes straight to busy.

What the hell?

I don’t even have Posey’s number. Again, technology as hindrance.

I used to have all my friends’ phone numbers memorized. It helped that I only had two friends, and they lived in the same house, but still.

“I’m just going to hurry and get dressed and run there,” I explain in a rush.

I set Tessa’s phone on the coffee table and walk to my room.

My toes still hurt.

If I leave now, I can get there in less than fifteen minutes. I could be halfway there already if I’d just gotten dressed instead of trying to call them. I glance at the phone on my bed. I also could have used my phone by now if I’d left it on the charger.

You win some, you lose some.

I rush around my room and throw on dark jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. I hurry to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I take a piss and wash my hands. Without even looking in the mirror, I shut the light off and go back into the living room. The feeling is coming back to my toes, and I’m glad, since I’ll have to practically run there. I’m sure I look like complete hell, but once I get to work, I’ll run my fingers through my hair, or something.

My shoes . . . where are my shoes? I scan my floor and look inside my closet.

Living room. They must be by the door.

Where they belong.I hear Tessa’s voice in my head and laugh to myself.

I’m at the door, pushing my feet into my sneakers, in less than five minutes since I tried to call Grind. I grab my keys and yank the door open to find someone standing in front of me.

Nora.

With a trash bag in one arm and a box at her feet.

Her eyes widen when she sees me and I look down at the box. There’s a book, a picture frame, and some random stuff that’s unidentifiable and buried.

“Hi.” Nora’s lips shape the word and she stares at me with what looks like hesitation.

“Hi,” I respond, trying to piece together what she’s doing here.

With her stuff.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, and she nods.

Suddenly her eyes well up with tears and I watch her clench her free hand into a tight fist. She takes a deep breath, and just like that, she straightens her back and holds her tears at bay.

“Can I come in?” Her voice is low, defeated, but she’s putting on a good front.

I bend down, grab the box, and hold it in one arm. I reach out my hand for her to give me the trash bag and she does.