Voices by Erin Miller

“What was I supposed to do?” she said. “It’s not like you ever paid any attention to me!”

It was a typical argument. Cheaters always tried to play the victim, like the ones they had cheated on were the real monsters.

Eric rolled his eyes, diverting them from her gaze. Her face was getting to that ugly pinched state again, the way it always did when she got angry and self-righteous.

“I think you should just go,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

Seeing as it was her apartment (as she so often liked to remind him), he agreed with her for once.

“Fine,” he huffed, turning to go. He grabbed his coat from the front hallway and had made his way to the door when her strained voice stopped him.

“Key,” was all she said.

Eric’s blood boiled as he kept his back to her. But in the end, he decided it was best not to argue. Shoving his hand into his pants pocket, he pulled out his keyring. When he turned around, she was right there, hovering behind him. He didn’t look her in the eye as he slapped the key into her open palm.

She slammed the door behind him as he left.

“Always was a whore,” Jerry said.

“Whoah, where did that come from?” Eric asked.

“I’m just sayin’, I never liked her. You wouldn’t listen to me.”

“She’s been around longer than you have, my friend.”

Silence.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Eric said, already exasperated with the old man. But it was times like these that tended to be the most productive. “What have you been up to?” he prodded.

Jerry couldn’t resist the chance to complain. “Rachel’s coming to visit,” he grumbled.

Jerry hated Rachel.

“That ought to be interesting,” Eric said. Nothing but trouble ever happened when Jerry’s sister came to town. The ideas spun in his head.

And then it hit him.

His laptop.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. Without his laptop, he wouldn’t be able to record all the shenanigans that Jerry and Rachel would get into.

He’d only made it as far as the sidewalk outside the building. He had to go back.

When he was once again facing his former front door, Eric was at a loss. It was impressive how quickly she’d gotten rid of the spare key, usually hidden under the door mat so cleverly.

“Bobby pin,” came another voice. Aleks was a Soviet spy, back in the day. It had been a while since Eric had heard from him.

“What?” Eric said, flabbergasted. “Where am I supposed to get a bobby pin?”

“Women. They always carry bobby pin. Fall off them like leaves off tree.”

Eric glanced to the floor. The paisley patterned carpet was almost enough to make him give up right there, but sure enough, something small caught a gleam off the dim hallway lights, and Eric snatched it up.

“Incredible,” he muttered to himself, stretching the pin apart to do his dirty work.

His heart was pounding in his chest, thinking surely he was being too loud, though he knew she wouldn’t be in the living room. When she got seriously mad, she would resort to the comforts of her bedroom with a bag of smoked turkey jerky to watch Sex and the City. That being said, he still didn’t want to make any noise.

With a flick of the wrist, he was in. He made sure to double check his surroundings before he closed the door, in case he needed a quick escape. But sure enough, her bedroom door was closed, and she was nowhere to be seen.

Their living room was a mess, suffering a severe case of utter neglect. Eric was usually busy with writing, and she usually busy with whoring around, so there was never much time to tidy up.

He tread lightly as he crossed the room to the dining table, his usual office space. It was also the collect-all for anything that didn’t have another place, like the piles of credit card bills and advertisements, or the outer layers that she didn’t want to leave in the hallway because she “wasn’t warm enough yet”. Her heavy grey pea coat was folded haphazardly and piled on the glass table, but even after pushing that and everything else aside, there was no laptop. Just an old paper towel, stained with pizza sauce and coagulated cheese.

“Gross,” Sage piped up. “All that time spent on the recipe boards of Pinterest, and you can’t ever make anything more than a Hot Pocket?”

“We can’t all be pros,” Eric said with an eyeroll. Those hours of his life had been for her anyways. He might be incompetent in the kitchen, but she didn’t have to be.

He crossed back towards the foyer, looking for his bag.

Through the bedroom door, he heard Carrie Bradshaw blabbing on about whatever life shattering event was happening to her. At least the sound of her whining was mostly covering that of his footsteps right outside the door.

“Oh, that’s actually a good episode,” said Hope, perking up.

“Lord, help us,” Jerry muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Eric agreed.

“You were the one that subjected us to that miserable wench.”

“Research,” was the best excuse Eric could come up with, though he couldn’t remember why he’d ever thought the information necessary. Usually, his guilty pleasures were labeled as research, just so he didn’t have to explain himself.

“Now she’s over at my place every other day showing me how to love again through Carrie’s eyes.”

“You love it,” Hope assured him.

Eric could feel the old man’s heavy sigh. As stubborn as Jerry was, he could never find it in himself to say no to Hope.

He suddenly spotted the thick black strap of his bag, peeking out from underneath the couch like it had been kicked there. He rushed to it excitedly, only to realize that the next room seemed oddly quiet.

The bedroom door opened suddenly, and Eric dropped to the floor behind the couch with a thud that wasn’t ideal for keeping a low profile.

“Who’s there?” she called out, a tidbit of fear in her voice.

“Oh come on,” Hope said. “Be a man.”

Eric sighed, and rose to his feet. She looked quite taken aback, unsure how to even react.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, her face twisting again.

“I’m just here for my laptop,” he explained, lifting the strap to his shoulder. “I’ll go now.”

“Wait,” she said once he reached the door.

Eric turned back, intrigued.

“I’m sorry,” she said. There were tears in her eyes, her face full of sorrow. “I know I made some mistakes, and you have too, but we can get through this.”

“It’s a trap,” Jerry muttered.

Eric was inclined to agree.

“Please don’t go, Eric,” she begged. “We’re better than this.”

“Well, you’re half right,” he acquiesced, turning to leave for good.

“If you walk out that door, you’re never coming back in,” she warned, her voice shaking despite her resolve. “I won’t wait around for you.”

“I think I’ll take that chance,” Eric said, walking out the door without looking back.

He determinedly strode down the hall, only flinching slightly at the sound of the door slamming behind him.

Jerry was laughing.

Minutes later, tucked away in his corner of Starbucks, Eric typed away furiously.

A woman is like the roof of a shed. If you don’t nail it hard enough, it’ll end up next door.

He laughed to himself, in spite of it all.

“Venti americano for Eric,” called the barista.

Eric finished typing his next cutting thought before standing up to claim his drink.

The brown-eyed girl glanced up at him from across the bar, a coy smile playing at her lips.

“Thank you,” Eric said curtly. He made it all the way back to his seat before noticing the ten digit number scribbled onto the cup sleeve.

With wide eyes, he looked up to the pretty barista, her brown pixie haircut barely shielding her eyes as she glanced towards him with a mischievous smile, continuing her work like she didn’t know he was looking.

Eric looked from her to the number and back. His finger fell onto the backspace key, erasing the entire passage before getting up to make his move.