Lost Love

It’s been six months since she’s been gone.

Every time I think I’m done grieving, I find things that remind me of her—stupid things like her favorite fork when we brought home takeout, or letters we wrote each other when she was in college, all stuffed away in a drawer in the kitchen.

I haven’t really taken any time for myself since she died.

My friends and family have told me I need to grieve. Well, I grieve on my own time.

I go to work and try to live my life one day at a time.

Maybe work could let me take some time off so I can clean this house and get rid of anything and everything that reminds me of her. But part of me doesn’t want to throw anything away.

It would feel like I’m throwing away the memories we had.

I don’t know what to do.

Then I realize I’m standing in the kitchen holding the fork, daydreaming about the things we did together.

I walk up to the trash can, put my foot down, and open the lid. I toss the fork in, and the lid closes on its own.

I walk away and find myself in the dining room, staring at my desk under the window. There, I used to write short stories about our adventures. I haven’t sat in my chair in months, not since she was killed.

I take a seat and wipe away the dust that has collected on my notebooks and computer. Then, I start reading what I had written before Liz passed.

I smile while reading my notes. Writing is my passion. With my imagination, I can create stories in my head and make them feel real. Most of the time, what I write is accurate. I take some of Liz’s and my real adventures and put them on paper.

You see, our adventures aren’t just about traveling—they’re also about traveling with little or no clothes.

I use a pen name, so others don’t put two and two together and know Liz and I are in those stories. How embarrassing would it be if her family read my work?

My mother, on the other hand, isn’t embarrassed by what I write. I use fictional characters, but she knows it’s me.

My pager starts beeping on my hip as I look to see whose number it is. It’s my mother, who wants me to call her. I grab the desk phone and dial her number.

“Hi, honey. How are you doing? I didn’t know if you were at work, so I paged you,” she says.

“I’m good, Mom. Do you need me for something?” I ask.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can hear it in your voice,” she says.

My mother knows me just by hearing my voice. She can tell when I’m happy or at a low moment in my life. “You’re thinking about Liz again, aren’t you?” she asks.

“How can I not? All her stuff is still here. Every time I see something of hers, it brings me down.”

“Maybe you need—”

I stop her before she finishes her sentence. “I decided not to get rid of her stuff just yet. I think I’ll put it in storage for the time being. When I’m ready, I’ll donate everything.”

“That sounds like a good idea, honey.”

“Mom, I need to get ready for work.”

“You do that. Love you,” she says.

“Love you back. Bye.”

I get to work and park my car in my regular spot under the orange tree.

I work for a local grocery store called Jimmy’s as a dairy manager. There, I fill everything related to dairy, including eggs, milk, cheese, and anything else related to the dairy department. I also make the orders when inventory gets low.

I walk over to the time clock, pull my card, and slide it under as it stamps my time.

“Jon!”

“Yes, sir,” I say, walking into the main office.

“Good news or bad?” he asks.

“Good.”

“Both your trucks just showed up in the back simultaneously. The bad news is, your help, Tim, called in today. That means you’re by yourself all day.”

“I’m okay with that anyway. I like working alone.”

“Get started on those trucks, and if I find someone, I’ll send him your way.”

“Thank you, sir.” I walk out of the office.

I see a girl wearing knit gloves in front of the customer service desk. I shake my head because it’s the start of summer here in Tampa, Florida. Either she has thin blood and is always cold, or she just likes wearing gloves.

After a couple of hours of work, I need a milk report to show what is sold so I can make an order for my next milk delivery.

I walk past the registers and see the girl from earlier being trained on the express lane. She has a name badge on a Jimmy’s vest for cashiers in training.

I nod with a smile to her as she looks at me, then looks back down. She has only one glove on this time, which is on her left hand.

“Hey, Rob. Can I have the—?”

“Already did them for you,” he says, handing them to me through the employee window.

“Thank you, sir. Who’s the new girl working express?”

“Her name is Deanna. She’s a transient from Colombia who’s back in the States and needed a job,” he says.

“I wonder what kind of panties she wears under that?” he adds, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

I ignore the comment. “Why is she wearing gloves?” I ask.

“I couldn’t tell you. She told me it was a personal issue.”

“Okay. Thanks for my reports,” I say, holding them up.

I finish my milk reports in the back office, where I hear a lot of laughing. So I go to investigate what is funny. I go into the breakroom and see the new girl sitting by herself with Ben, Brian, and Stan standing over her.

“She thinks she’s Michael Jackson with one glove on,” Ben says.

“Don’t let her get too close to any fire. Her hair will go up in flames,” Brian says, laughing hysterically.

“Maybe she’s the Billie Jean he sang about. Except, you’re not his girl,” Stan says.

“What are you three doing? Do you think you’re still in high school and can pick on somebody with one glove?” I say in a stern voice.

They look at me like they’ve been caught stealing.

“Break’s over. Get back outside and get those carts,” I say, pointing to all three. “Next time I catch you fucking with her, I’ll have you fired for harassment.”

All three of them run out of the breakroom.

“Are you okay?” I ask, looking at her.

“I’m fine, thanks. I can take care of myself,” she says, not looking at me.

I step closer to her. “My name is Jonathan. I run the dairy department,” I say, holding my hand out.

She tucks her left hand under the table and looks up at me.

I still have my hand out when she takes it and shakes it.

“I’m Deanna,” she says, barely holding my hand.

“First day on the job?”

She nods her head.

“Don’t worry about them anymore. If I find out they’ve been messing with you, I’ll have their asses.”

She smiles a little and looks up at me. “I’m sorry. I’m new here from Texas. I’ve only been here for a few days.”

“What brings you to Tampa from Texas?” I ask.

“I needed to leave.” That is all she says.

“Okay. I’ll get back to my truck and probably see you before I leave,” I tell her.

She nods as I walk back out.

It takes me several hours to finish putting away my order, but it is done. I don’t see Deanna when I clock out, and she must have already left.