Ham and Cheese and Well-Worn Copies

Ham and Cheese an Well-Worn Copies

 4:32

The grey sky glooms overhead threatening. The sun was swallowed into the mass of grey before it even got a chance to rise. Tornado warnings were posted in the news all day. The weatherman said not to go outside unless necessary, to just stay where you are until it passes. And still, the man with the blue briefcase walks through the town square. Just like every other day.

4:36

The second the clock changes from 4:35 to 4:36, in through the door walks the man with the blue briefcase. His dog, Jake, yaps excitedly at his owner's return. The man with the blue briefcase pats his head in return. He walks into the kitchen, setting his blue briefcase on the marble counter's edge. He takes a ham and cheese sandwich and, sitting at the counter with his well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby out, he begins to eat and read. He has, of course, read this book a million times. He could quote it if you asked. But he still reads it. Like it's a new bestseller. He lets out a heavy sigh. He had a long day at work, but, then again, he always does.

4:30, the next day

The man with the blue briefcase stumbles out of the bar on 3rd Street. If he didn't leave now, he wouldn't make it home on time. He'd had yet another long day, this one longer than any one he could remember. But he'd just eat his ham and cheese sandwich and read some of The Great Gatsby and he'd feel better.

4:36

The man with the blue briefcase walks through the door on time, despite being intoxicated. Jake yaps. The man pats his head, his whiskey filled breath fanning over Jake and causing him to turn away. The man becomes mad at this. He raises his finger and opens his mouth to yell. Something stops him. He remembers his ham and cheese sandwich waiting for him. He pats Jake's head and smiles, tears welling up in his eyes. He walks to the counter and moves to set his briefcase on it. But he doesn't have it. He becomes angry again, roughly grabbing his ham and cheese sandwich and his well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby and sitting on the kitchen stool. He mumbles gruffly, eating and reading with his brows furrowed. Tomorrow will be better, he hopes.

4:36, three days later

It is 4:36 and the man with the blue briefcase is not home. Jake waits at the door. The ham and cheese sandwich sits. His well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby lays on the counter.

9:18

The man with the blue briefcase stumbles through the door, his blue briefcase in hand. He looks around for Jake and finds him asleep. He pats his head anyway, then makes his way into the kitchen. The ham and cheese sandwich sits there, waiting patiently. Almost five hours of oblivion, and still, it waits. His well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby isn't there but he's too drunk to notice. He eats the ham and cheese sandwich slowly. Not even thinking twice about it.

4:36, two weeks later

The man with the blue briefcase walks through the door, just as the time changes. He looks around for Jake but sees him nowhere. He shrugs, figuring he's in the kitchen. He walks into the kitchen himself, setting his blue briefcase on the edge of the marble counter and reaching for the ham and cheese sandwich. It wasn't there. He looked all over the house, but still, the ham and cheese, his well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby and Jake were nowhere to be found. He lifted up his blue briefcase and noticed a small, pink sticky-note under it. It read:

"I love you, but I've got to go. I'm finding myself now. Good-bye."

There was no signature, but he didn't need one. He knew who it was from.