Textual Encounters: 2

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 popular 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.

------------------------------------------

4:34pm:

Hey, Jake. How’s your day been?

------------------------------------------

Jake

4:38pm:

Katie! I’m surprised to hear from you!

4:39pm:

Don’t you have a paper or something
due?

------------------------------------------

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.

------------------------------------------

Jake

4:47pm:

No, that’s fine.

4:49pm:

What’s going on at Columbia today?

------------------------------------------

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?

------------------------------------------

Jake

4:54pm:

Something tells me it’s probably best not to ignore you.

------------------------------------------

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?

------------------------------------------

Jake

4:58pm:

Hey, who said anything about “old men?”

------------------------------------------

4:59pm:

It’s not like I said “geriatric,” Jake.
Relax :P

4:59pm:

Besides, since I’ve met you, I have a new apprec
iation for men over the age of 40.

------------------------------------------

Jake

5:01pm:

Ouch. I haven’t fallen over THAT
ledge yet. Not even close, in fact.

------------------------------------------

5:02pm:

So that’s a “yes.” What time are you picking me up?

------------------------------------------

Jake

5:04pm: