TEXTUAL ENCOUNTERS
TWO
Morgan Parker
Twitter: @mparkerbooks
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/morgan.parker.books
© May 2013
QuoteStork Media, Inc.
www.TextualEncounters.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, conversations, circumstances and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any and all references to real products, objects, locations, events, locations and people are meant to lend the reader a sense of authenticity but are used fictitiously.
With the exception of quoted text used in a published review, no part of this work can reproduced without the written permission of QuoteStork Media, Inc..
Author’s Acknowledgments
This project could not have been possible without the tireless efforts of many people, but I absolutely must thank Leslie Fear, an awesome friend with an even awesomer eye for quality, which will make her a great author herself. Leslie, without you I would not be writing! I owe you!
I must also thank Cathy Givans (CathyGivans.com) who has been with me from the start. She has been my inspiration, my teacher and my friend.
Table of Contents
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Sunday April 7, 2013
Tuesday April 9, 2013
Friday April 12, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Tuesday April 16, 2013
Wednesday April 17, 2013
Friday April 26, 2013
Tuesday April 30, 2013
Thursday May 2, 2013
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Monday May 6, 2013
Wednesday May 7, 2013
Thursday May 8, 2013
Monday May 12, 2013
Wednesday May 15, 2013
Thursday May 17, 2013
Friday May 18, 2013
Saturday May 19, 2013
Sunday May 20, 2013
Monday May 21, 2013
Monday June 24, 2013
Saturday June 29, 2013
Sneak Peek: Christine’s Return
Textual Encounters - TWo
Located at Broadway and W 26, Toshi’s at the Flatiron Hotel happens to pour the meanest martinis in Manhattan. Plus, at just three blocks from my office, it makes for an easy walk after those long days pleasing the Attention-Deficit Neanderthal who calls himself my boss.
In the summer when you can access the rooftop terrace, the view is nothing short of breathtaking. If the architectural view is not quite inspiring enough, then the bankers, lawyers and brokers in their powersuits with their shirts unbuttoned certainly have a way of filling that gap. If I could buy shares in the hotel, I would. Until then, it’s a few more weeks before the terrace opens up.
Tonight, Jackie and Romina thought the Flatiron might make for a great night out, just the three of us after a shitty week at work, sipping martinis at Toshi’s and seeing what kind of attention we can draw to ourselves.
We walk into the trendy, main-floor restaurant and claim a nice sofa next to a window overlooking W 26. The night quickly evaporates in that magical way that only one drink after another can make happen.
It’s dark outside all of a sudden, and there’s a pain in my bladder that demands my attention, so I excuse myself. The light-headedness slaps me fast and hard the moment I stand, and it takes all of my concentration to walk a straight line toward the bathroom.
I hear Jackie and Romina chuckling somewhere behind me, but because they have been chuckling like that since 6:30, right after our third round of straight alcohol, I’m not sure if they are laughing at me or something else. Hearing their laughter makes me smile – it has been a fun night so far – and I disappear into the bathroom, lock myself in a stall and try not to fall over as I lower my tights and panties and settle on the toilet to pee.
Beyond that, I remember nothing else. I don’t remember the blood, I don’t remember rolling forward off the toilet seat and hitting my head on the bathroom floor (yuck) and laying there for God-knows-how-long before a med student found me.
“Did anyone bring you the package that was left for you?” the nurse asks as she jots down notes on a clipboard.
I look around my private hospital room, ignoring the floral arrangements that, I have to say, should have gone to the women who not only knew they were pregnant, but carried their babies to term. The thought makes me want to cry my face off, so I try not to think of it too much.
“No,” I manage to choke out. “I didn’t get a package.”
The nurse nods. She checks the IV tube, throws a band around my bicep and takes my blood pressure.
“How are you feeling today?” She asks.
“Curious. About the package.”
She grins. “I think they’ll send you home tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.” She starts to leave, then looks back at me. “I’ll get that package.”
She leaves my private hospital room. The silence settles in with the swoosh of the door, as thick as a milkshake (fuck, I could go for one of those right about now), and I wonder why Will isn’t sitting here with me. Part of me knows the answer, but another part wonders if he might surprise me for once.
Yesterday I woke up to the sound of Will sobbing with his back to me. I pretended that I was still asleep, waiting for him to stop and wipe his face dry. I only opened my eyes once I knew he was sitting up and reading his Kindle. I watched him for an entire chapter before reaching through the bars that keep me from falling out of bed, seizing his hand and bringing it close enough to kiss it.
I don’t get to think too much about Will because the nurse comes back and hands me a box large enough to accommodate a pair of toddler’s flip flops. The box is wrapped in shipping paper all nice and tight, and has nothing but my name on it, written in black permanent marker. No address, nothing else – just my name in a script that I do not recognize. I stare at the box for a minute or so, then catch myself startled by the swoosh of the door again.
It’s just the nurse leaving, but I know that any time that door opens, it can bring more flowers and more guests. Maybe even Will. It’s that time of day when people will start taking their lunch breaks and, with nothing else but pity on their minds, they will want to visit me.
I open the package carefully enough to preserve the wrapping paper. Ironically, the box has a picture of a popular but inexpensive pair of children’s shoes on it, the kind they might hand out at shelters for less fortunate people. But the weight of the box tells me that it holds something more substantial than a pair of cheap shoes. When I remove the lid, I’m instantly confused.
A Samsung Galaxy S4. It’s obviously not new – I see fingerprints on the touch screen and the corners show signs of wear – so I’m not quite sure what the purpose of this gift is. I swipe the screen to bring it to life and immediately recognize the photo in the background.
It’s Jake.
My stomach tightens. The sight of him makes my palms clammy and my heart rate pick up, something confirmed by the quickening chirps from the EKG monitor.
A whiff of the flowers snaps me back to reality.
I am in a hospital bed.
I am holding a Samsung Galaxy phone.
It doesn’t belong to me.
Who sent this? And does this mysterious person know that I just lost Jake’s baby?
I scroll through the screens, past the usual and popular apps (games, utilities, anything that hits the Top 10 it seems) and come to the email icon. I click on it, a little surprised to see that the mailbox is empty, or it has been cleared out on purpose by the Galaxy’s owner. I wonder why.
My next stop is the jAppe application, a po
pular texting tool that keeps chats private and secure through some kind of encryption process that leaves the intelligible message existing on only the sender’s and receiver’s phones.
Surprisingly, I find only on conversation in jAppe.
It is a 3-month conversation between Jake and the phone’s original owner, a woman named Katie (who, I am about to find out, is actually barely a woman).
With my heart beating a mile a minute, I check my surroundings to make sure I’m still alone, then access the conversation that will change my life forever.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
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4:34pm:
Hey, Jake. How’s your day been?
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Jake
4:38pm:
Katie! I’m surprised to hear from you!
4:39pm:
Don’t you have a paper or something due?
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4:43pm:
I figure if I keep waiting for you to contact me, I might be waiting a while. I can’t work on a paper when I’m waiting for someone.
4:45pm:
Hope that wasn’t too forward of me.
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Jake
4:47pm:
No, that’s fine.
4:49pm:
What’s going on at Columbia today?
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4:50pm:
I guess this might be even more forward, but I’ve got nothing going on tomorrow night. Want to hang out?
4:54pm:
Are you ignoring me now?
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Jake
4:54pm:
Something tells me it’s probably best not to ignore you.
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4:55pm:
Something tells me you’re right ;-)
4:56pm:
So what do you say? Want to show me what old men do for fun on a Friday night?
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Jake
4:58pm:
Hey, who said anything about “old men?”
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4:59pm:
It’s not like I said “geriatric,” Jake. Relax :P
4:59pm:
Besides, since I’ve met you, I have a new appreciation for men over the age of 40.
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Jake
5:01pm:
Ouch. I haven’t fallen over THAT ledge yet. Not even close, in fact.
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5:02pm:
So that’s a “yes.” What time are you picking me up?
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Jake
5:04pm:
Wait a second. How did we get to YES?
------------------------------------------
5:05pm:
How else will I get to see your driver’s license to prove you’re not 40 yet?
5:06pm:
That’s what I thought.
5:07pm:
Corner of Broadway and W 169. Now you tell me what time?
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Jake
5:10pm:
OK, I guess I can do some babysitting tomorrow night. How does 8pm sound?
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5:11pm:
8 sounds good. But the whole “babysitting” comment implies you’ll be putting me to bed. Or spanking me. A little creepy coming from an old man.
5:12pm:
Should I bring my pepper spray?
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Jake
5:13pm:
Yes, bring it.
5:14pm:
I might need it.
5:15pm:
You scare me, Katie!
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5:16pm:
Okay. Pepper spray for the old man and for me, an outfit that makes me look like I’m 16. Perfect.
------------------------------------------
Jake
5:20pm:
Great. Looking forward to it.
5:21pm:
Have a good night, and don’t forget to get to bed early. Old men like me like stay up long after the Disney channel goes off-air on a Friday night.
5:35pm:
Did I take that last one a little too far?
5:45pm:
OK, see you tomorrow at 8pm.
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Saturday, April 6, 2013
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6:25am:
Are you awake, old man?
6:27am:
Or haven’t you taken your shot of nitro yet?
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Jake
6:28am:
Did you climb out of your crib again? Why are you awake so early on a Saturday?
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6:29am:
Forget it.
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Jake
6:32am:
Everything okay?
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6:33am:
I had a lot of fun with you last night, Jake. It was the perfect evening. Thank you for that.
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Jake
6:35am:
I enjoyed it, too. The food was great, the show was decent and, last but not least, you were gorgeous.
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6:40am:
Then why didn’t you try to kiss me?
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Jake
6:43am:
I’m sorry. You’re a great person, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.
------------------------------------------
6:44am:
Who said anything about a relationship?
6:45am:
Jake, I’m a big girl. I think we’re both two fairly attractive people, we can be adults about this, right?
6:45am:
Am I wrong?
------------------------------------------
Jake
6:47am:
No, I find you attractive too. And I know you’re an adult – remember, the server wouldn’t have given you that pina colada if you were under 21.
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6:50am:
Then how about you take me to a club tonight to make it up to me?
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Jake
6:52am:
Things are complicated right now. I need to get my head straight.
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6:54am:
Is it that girl you talked about last night? Christina?
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Jake
6:56am:
Christine.
6:56am:
Yes.
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6:58am:
Has she shown up out of nowhere all of a sudden? Because if she hasn’t, then I don’t see the harm in taking me out tonight.
7:00am:
Unless you have other plans.
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Jake
7:01am:
No other plans. Let’s do it.
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7:02am:
Care to elaborate on “doing it?”
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Jake
&nbs
p; 7:03am:
Very funny.
7:04am:
Let’s go out tonight, have a good time.
------------------------------------------
7:06am:
Will you kiss me?
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Jake
7:07am:
Possibly. But only if the mood leads us there.
------------------------------------------
7:08am:
Sounds like you’re in trouble. And I’m getting kissed.
7:09am:
Pick me up at 10 tonight?
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Jake
7:11am:
Sure thing.
7:13am:
See you later.
7:16am:
You should really come up with a better way to end a chat. Old men like me don’t know when it’s appropriate to put the phone down.
------------------------------------------
7:20am:
OK. See you later.
7:21am:
Is that better?
------------------------------------------
Jake
7:22am:
Yes. Much.
------------------------------------------
Turning the phone upside down, I take several deep breaths. The base of my head feels like it’s on fire, my cheeks are burning hot with betrayal and I have to clench my eyes shut to get control of myself. I can hardly believe my reaction to this damn Samsung!
Textual Encounters: 2 Page 1