I was exhausted, angry at Bob for not picking me up at the airport, and regretful of the argument I’d had with my parents as I left their Florida condo to return to Boston.
It was 10 p.m. when the taxi stopped in front of my brownstone on Commonwealth Ave. The driver pulled out my suitcase and waited for his fare. He’d not spoken a word the short trip from Logan to my place, and now he just held out his hand for the $20 I placed there. With no thanks for the $5 tip, he got back in his yellow cab and sped off.
I picked up my bag, which seemed lighter than I remembered from this morning, and walked into my unlit second story studio. So, Bob didn’t even bother to come to welcome me home. Well, as far as I was concerned, Bob could go to hell. And once I’d had a good night’s sleep, I would tell him that. I’d wait for dinner tomorrow to officially break up with him. This one-year relationship had turned into six months of disappointments. I didn’t know why I’d held on so long.
As I pulled my suitcase up on my bed and unclasped it, I acknowledged to myself that I did know why I’d waited so long. Bob was gorgeous. He was wealthy, and he was my parent’s best friends’ son’s former Harvard college roommate.
Thus, now another reason for my parents to be disappointed in me.
I yanked open the suitcase.
My mind wouldn’t grasp what I was looking at. It surely wasn’t my pearl silk blouse and gray slacks, nor my jeans and pink cotton shirt.
No, it was a women’s flimsy nightgown of diaphanous blue, a man’s black silk robe, a shaving kit, and a box of chocolates.
And that was it.
I closed the top and stared at the anonymous brown bag. Not mine. Looked like mine. But not.
And now what was I supposed to do? I opened the top again and pulled out the chocolates.
The box was unopened.
SO FAR . . . .