Work Friends

He hadn’t come home that night, at least not when she’d expected him to.

Tired of watching the front door, waiting in quiet shame for it to open, she started a new ritual. Checking the clock in the hall. That felt less neurotic than glaring at her watch every thirty seconds. She even conjured up menial tasks for herself: empty a bin that wasn’t full, tidy away a lone umbrella by the stairs, sweep around the telephone table; tasks specifically designed to take her past the hall clock so she could steal glances. But, as the faux tasks grew thin, and the time grew later, she fell back into her old habit of simply standing beneath the clock in embarrassment.

Nothing she’d done that evening had made her feel any better; the constant looking at the clock, the constant pacing, the constant texting, the constant lack of reply from the other side. Worse still, the fact that the old clock above her now gloated 9 pm was the sour cherry on an evening of contempt and distrust.

She broke out of her trance when she heard the baby cry.

With a cool chill, she realized she’d forgotten it even existed those past two hours. She went up into the small pastel room and sat beside the cot. The baby brayed and babbled and almost let out its signature battle cry, but somehow, she stayed any tears. She rocked the wooden cot gently and almost instantaneously the baby’s eyes began to droop. She checked her watch. Darkness had fallen over the house like a shroud of good velvet. The baby gurgled suddenly, then coughed. It was a strange noise; one she hadn’t heard it make before. She leaned over and rubbed its little belly softly. It fell back into limp slumber soon enough. As the cot rocked back and forth, she thought she heard the boards groaning out her husband’s name, again and again, just to remind her he wasn’t there. She thought about their agreement, hers and his, and as she cooed the baby to sleep, she felt he was breaking it.

The baby, in between the glib creaking of the boards, began to breathe heavily in the unencumbered bliss of sleep. It went off easier that night than it ever had done.

She sat in the quiet of the room and listened to it breathe. Outside, the moon shone in and lit up the floor in a large pale square. She looked at it for a while and wished he’d call. She looked at her phone again, but there was nothing from him.

She went into her bedroom and sat on the bed. It was neatly made, and the room had been cleaned recently and cleaned well. There were no photos on the bedside tables. Or on the walls. But there had been. She laid and looked at the ceiling. She listened to the silence pulsing in her ears. The house was quiet. The baby was asleep early.

She thought about the uses of this valuable time. The baby never slept so easily, but now it was, she had a million things she wanted to be doing in the peaceful quiet. Instead, she was alone and simply doing nothing at all. It was scarce and treasured time she was burning. Had he been here, they could have been quietly fucking, furtively switching from position to position, so as not to wake the little thing next door. He could be doing whatever he wanted to her. And she with him.

She felt the heat of passion take her and thought about masturbating. Not necessarily because she was aroused, but because she felt it would spite him in some way. She even went as far as to take her dildo from the drawer, but in the end, it lay on the bed unused, like a disappointed lover. As she looked at the silver smooth rod beside her, she realized this had been the first time in months she’d had feelings of passion toward him. There was a fluttering in her chest. A feeling that some old thing, previously ripped apart, was starting to heal. It was a joyous moment, but as she caught sight of the bedroom clock, she saw it was nearly midnight.

She checked her phone again. There was nothing from him.

7 pm they’d said. That was the agreement.

As soon as the euphoria of new love had come, it was gone, and the crawling feeling of jealousy was back, picking at her skin from the inside. She paced the room and told herself they were in a better place. However, the clock kept grabbing her attention. Feeling that she was starting another obsessive routine, she eventually tore herself away from the bedroom and went downstairs, and turned on the TV.

There was nothing she wanted to watch. She tried to sleep but couldn’t. She went back to the TV. She scanned channel to channel aimlessly. She even opened a bottle of wine, but it tasted sour. She went into the kitchen to eat but wasn’t hungry.

In the end, she sat on the sofa and did nothing but wait.

She listened out in the silence of the house, straining against the white noise of nothing at all for a buzzing or a ringing. There wasn’t one.

Until 1 am.

She was still on the sofa when the phone rang, half dozed, a bottle of wine forced down, and she snatched up the phone as soon as she heard the first vibration. There was fuzz and noise and voices on the other end.

“Steven? Hey? Where are you?”

“I’m fine.” He sounded faint in the clammer of life around him.

“I said where are you?”

The voice on the other end was blunt and unapologetic.

“Out, still. I just…” He trailed off with a grunt of incomprehension.

“Where are you?” she said coldly, “who are you with? We were supposed to eat at nine?”

“Just having a few drinks, christ. Anything wrong with that?”

“Who?” she asked, faster, “who’s having drinks?”

“Work friends. People from the office. It's alright.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Can’t a guy go for a drink?” he asked, plainly. “It’s only Paul and Bobby.”

“Steve, I said when are-”

“Why can’t a guy just go for a drink? What’s the harm?”

She made to reply but the line cut out. She tried to call back, but there was no answer. She didn’t leave any messages. Eventually, as the clock came closer to 2 am the calls began to click straight to voicemail. She stayed where she was, curled up on the sofa, and tried not to cry.

The house was quiet. Upstairs, the baby slept soundly.

After her eyes started to sting and the late-night TV turned blurry, she looked at her phone again and saw it was nearly 3. She checked his location online, it was part of their agreement that it was to be shared, but she couldn’t see where he was. He’d turned it off.

She was hit with a horrid feeling of Déjà vu as she went up to bed. A familiar feeling that stemmed from familiar signs. She laid down and tried to sleep; she told herself they were in a much better place than they had been. Perhaps she was right, perhaps she wasn’t. As she tossed and turned and failed to settle, she told herself she probably wasn’t.

When the knock on the door finally came, she looked at the clock.

It was 4 am.

She hadn’t been asleep, but she waited briefly by the bedroom door to give him the impression that he’d disturbed her. She thought it odd that he’d knocked. He had his keys. She made for the hall. She saw a soft outline through the glass of the door. He was outside, holding onto the wall, eyes closed.

“Steve, what the fuck?”

He looked at her, bug-eyed. His lips glistened with drool. His suit was tattered, and his tie was hanging around his midriff like some low-end beat poet. He didn’t smile when he saw her.

“It wasn’t..."

He suddenly fell forward. She caught him. Just. He grumbled something and his legs bent limply as he failed to stand.

“You’re a fucking mess,” she said, as she strained to keep him from toppling over completely. They staggered backward, into the hallway. His hands ran blindly along the walls and knocked off photo after photo.

A particularly pretty one of her and him, both beaming smiles at the beach, was crushed underfoot as they went. His eyes continued to focus on nothing at all and she could tell from the amount of weight he bore on her he was blind drunk.

“How much did you fucking drink?”

He made a bubbling sound in response. As they reached the stairs, she noticed he was damp with sweat.

“What the hell were you doing?”

He garbled on in some dreamt-up language. They made their way to the bedroom. The ascent took over twenty minutes. He lolled down heavily after every step. She pushed him upward with her legs like a deadlift, her arms clutched under his like a harness.

“I just,” he kept babbling. “Work… Bobby.”

“What are you on about?” she said, in between heaves.

“Why does it…”

They reached the final step. She finally dragged him onto the landing. From there, moving to the bedroom felt much easier. He was hardly conscious and if she didn’t have his arm he’d simply clatter down onto the floorboards.

Finally, inside the bedroom, she let him flop onto the bed with a glorious sigh of relief. He groaned as he sunk into the duvet. He smiled at something in his own head. She sat beside him.

“Do you feel sick? Do you need the bucket again?”

He smiled. His arms groped the air above him as if he’d started to finger-paint in a waking dream.

“Feel… Good.”

She put her head in her hands.

“Lucy… I just.”

She looked at him plainly.

“Lucy, please. Don’t make me.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant. She fetched the bucket anyway, still grimy from last time, and laid it on the floor beside him. She then took off his socks, then his trousers. As she pulled them away, she saw his penis bunched up in his tight briefs and she felt nauseous at ever having wanted it.

She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head. She could tell he was totally unconscious; his body rolled around with a limpness that came only from a total lack of control. As she pulled his crumpled shirt free, she got a thick waft of cologne, musty and overpowering, and threw it across the room in disgust.

She rolled him onto his side and left him there, snoring away heavily. She went next door and checked on the baby. It slept silently, lit up in the moonlight like the purest image of innocence. On any other night, the smallest of noises would have had it up and screaming. But, as it had done all night, it slept on, soundly.

Back in her own room, she began to tidy away his things. She wasn’t tired any longer. She folded his trousers and out fell his phone and wallet. She couldn’t find his keys. After she’d folded his clothes neatly and left them on the chair by the dresser, she climbed into bed and took off the expensive underwear she’d bought that day. She threw it across the room, unseen and unappreciated.

Once she was settled, she took out his phone, grabbed his thumb, and pressed it on the base. It opened with a satisfying click. She began to flick through the applications. In her head, she told herself she was just looking to see how he’d managed to find his way home. It was as innocent as that. First, she checked his cab apps for a place, a time, who’d been there, or at the very least how much it’d cost.

She found nothing.

As he snored away, she was met with a decision. It was a decision she’d been heading towards all night, whether she wanted to believe it or not.

She went to his messages.

There were some conversations between a few nondescript work friends she’d never met, with terribly boring names like Tom, Bob, and Mike. She scrolled for any apps he might have re-downloaded since their agreement, but she found none.

Everywhere was clean.

No emails untoward, no hidden folders, no names, no strange conversations. She felt sour guilt rise in her throat like bile. Perhaps she had it all wrong. Perhaps the reason he didn’t want to come home was because he’d have to spend the evening with a bitter, jealous sow. Perhaps everything was alright.

Indeed, everything would have been alright if that message had arrived ten minutes later. She’d have been asleep, or at least trying, but she wasn’t. The vibration rang out like a funeral knell, loud in the easy stillness of the house.

The number wasn’t saved. It simply said: “u home ok?”

She felt her skin burn cold. Her throat dried up and the wine in her stomach curdled. He gurgled beside her. She nudged him. His mouth bubbled and he went back to snoring horribly.

She was already crying as she typed a reply, her chest filled with a loathsome self-hate that, up until now, she hadn’t experienced.

“Sry, pretty wasted, who this?”

She sent it. Waited. She looked at him, grunting beside her.

A reply buzzed in.

“Aha real funnyyyy x”

She was sweating, feverish. She felt the radiator. It was stone cold.

She replied. “Sry had tooooo much to drink!”

It sent. She waited.

Then; “Was that 4th bottle. Surprised u even made it home. Had fun tho.”

She read the message and then re-read it.

“Room is spinning.” Sent.

“Me too haha.” Reply.

“Where were we?” Sent.

“Wow u are drunk aha! Mine u idiot.” Reply.

The last message rolled in with all the power of a brick to the teeth. She waited. In the silence, she waited for clarity to arrive and tell her what to do. Eventually, it told her to put the damn phone down and go to sleep. In the end, she decided she didn't want to do that. She typed one word and begged herself not to send it, but she did anyway.

“Lucy?”

She waited for a lifetime. There was more of that pristine silence. The baby slept soundly. Steve snored loudly. Then, a short buzz announced another message.

“Duh?! Stop being weird!”

Beside her, Steve let out a flapping, braying sound, and his eyes flickered half open. They stayed that way. Underneath, his eyeballs were rolled back in some faraway place. She wondered what he was thinking about. She wondered if his body could manage thought in its current state. He stared out at the world with white, blind eyes, lost to some strange borderland. He grunted and snored on, louder than ever.

She cried harder as he replied to Lucy. The replies kept coming. They talked for some time. Lucy was rather nice. It almost made sense. She had everything she needed, answers, information, clarity, and an unwanted photo of her smooth, naked body. She hadn't asked for that. But perhaps it was meant to happen that way. A lewd message accompanied it, containing Steve’s name, like a dry excerpt from a D.H Lawrence novel.

Finally, she stopped replying. She sat with the phone in her hand. Beside her, he’d rolled onto his back. His breath rattled in and out of his dry throat. She didn’t look at him. His foot began to twitch. She considered how to reply to a photo such as that.

There was a choking sound from beside her and something wet fell on her arm. Suddenly, the clarity she'd been asking for was back. She looked at Steve's foot. It kicked a little. He let out a strong braying noise, a snorting, a hacking, and she heard something wet spill onto the bed with a plop.

She didn’t look at him. She hoped the baby wouldn’t wake up. There came a cackling sound, loud, like a cracking pane of glass. His foot kept twitching, much more violently. His fingers danced as if he was firing a gun in his dreams. His eyes almost opened, but the white orbs underneath just winked at the empty world as flecks of brown sepsis dropped into them. A thick, trickling sound came then.

“Don’t wake the baby,” she said to him.

Vomit splashed her arm. Steve's throat made a sound like someone emptying a bath.

The phone in her hand buzzed again. She didn’t even read what it said. She simply turned the camera on the man beside her, covered in blue-green pieces of food, and took a photograph.

She sent it quite easily.

After that, she checked on the baby. She found it still sleeping peacefully. She wondered why it was so calm. It never went off this easily. In its cot, the baby gurgled a little and she rubbed its belly. The baby yawned, rubbed its fat little cheeks, and drifted back into pleasant dreams with a smile.

Back in her room, his mobile phone buzzed relentlessly. She didn’t reply to the calls. As she climbed into bed, feeling quite tired, she eventually put the phone on silent, left it to charge on the nightstand, and finally laid down to sleep.