Mentally, I’m losing my mind, not knowing where he is or if he’s safe.
I walk down the road, and see him sitting at a bench with a bunch of the people who live in the tents.
Me:
I see him.
He stands up as he sees me approach.
“I’m coming back home, babe,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” I roll my eyes, not quite believing him.
Me:
He’s returning, apparently.
AN HOUR LATER
Timmy’s whistle cuts through the evening air like a siren. It’s sharp, shrill, and unmistakable.
I glance toward the ocean and there he is—fingers hooked around the chain-link fence, leaning over it like some deranged seagull, trying to get my attention.
He’s yelling something, too, though I can’t make it out over the sound of waves and his own nonsensical theatrics.
I roll my eyes and look back at the TV. I’m not about to entertain whatever fresh madness this is.
He whistles again, louder this time.
God, you’re embarrassing.
He comes into the apartment, grabs the truck key and the mailbox key, and walks toward the door.
“What are you doing with those?” I ask, concerned.
He ignores me and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Great, now I can’t even go anywhere.
I can’t even go to the pool because he has both fobs.
Me:
Omg, he was like hanging onto the fence whistling and trying to get my attention.
Alice:
This sounds like a bad rom-com.
Me:
He walked off with the truck keys and mailbox key. This makes no sense.
He’s always losing things—his phone, his keys, his shoes.
If he loses the keys, I’m going to lose my shit.
I ignored the whistling and the yelling bc that’s embarrassing.