Wish You Were Here Page 2

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  I woke up oddly enough seated at my chair in my bedroom. I was sitting at my laptop, finishing up some last-minute touches on a sales presentation I was giving tomorrow. It was dark out, and a quick glance at the clock on the computer desktop confirmed it was late. 8.20pm: 1st October 2016. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was late for something. Worse still, all this felt…familiar. Ah that’s why. It was our anniversary. This was our regular routine.

  “Babe are you ready yet?” Morgan called from downstairs. “It’s late! We’re gonna miss our reservation!”

  “Yeah I’m almost done!” I lied. “Be there in a few minutes!”

  I quickly shut my laptop lid and looked around the room. I’d laid out a dress on the bed, an elegant little black dress with gold piping running up the front and around the shoulders. I quickly slipped out of the sweatpants and T-shirt I had on. Those were what I liked to call my ‘work clothes’. Clothes I worked best in. It’s a shame the office had a dress code or I’d be snugly wearing those day in and day out.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was in my home skivvies, an unflattering pair that I normally wouldn’t want to be caught dead in. But I was willing to make an exception this time, considering I was late and I didn't think anyone else would be seeing me in these. I tossed aside the clutch lying on my dress. My body spasmed suddenly as an accident scene flashed across my mind’s eye. I stopped to catch my breath, the wind having been knocked out of me due to the intensity of the experience. The tangibility of it. Must’ve been something I saw on TV recently. But it felt…real. My mind digressed. How embarrassing would it be if a nurse or doctor in said accident had to cut my clothes open to get to an otherwise obstructed wound and spotted my granny panties.

  Regardless, I’d take my chances. I slipped into the dress, carefully zipping up the back. Quickly picking up the clutch, I lamented how these dresses never came with pockets. Walking around with a clutch purse always made me feel so vulnerable.

  Freshening myself up with a few spritzes of perfume, I carefully lined my pursed lips with some lipstick I grabbed from my, in Morgan’s words, ‘Pandora’s box of a handbag’. I smiled. Men. Just because it wasn’t a filing cabinet didn’t mean I didn’t have a storage system in there. I popped the stick back in after I was convinced my lipstick was just the right amount of naughty and nice. After all, it was our tenth year together; I had to look like I was still trying to look good at least, despite the sagging of places unmentioned and the greying of formerly black bits.