Lost Love

Dear Brianna

AN: This is a short story that was the result of a random writing prompt (I don't remember what that prompt was). Enjoy :)

All rights reserved.

Henry Lenard had a job, a place to stay, clothes on his back and food in his fridge and he was foolish enough to assume he had gotten that way without any assistance. He sat in his rundown apartment smoking a cigarette he had used the last of his paycheck to purchase. The apartment was riddled with trash; his seat at the moment was a box of seven month-old newspaper deliveries he had failed to deliver from his previous job.

As his eyes roamed his surroundings, he couldn't help but feel like something was out of place in the chaotic mess of cans of Heineken, foam instant noodle bowls and plastic forks, water bottles, and dirty articles of clothing splayed all over the place. He leaned to the left, his legs crossed. He peered into the only other room in the small apartment and raised his eyebrows: that room was no tidier than the one he sat in. His brows furrowed; he couldn't for the life of him remember buying so many clothes.

Everything was just as it had been when he had slept so why did something feel so wrong? He straightened and gave a long examining look of the kitchen/living room. Then he realized what it must be: the bottle of water standing upright on the kitchen counter. Did he put it there? He couldn't remember. With a grunt he knocked it over and left. "Guess that's it," he sighed.

As of today, Henry worked in a large pharmacy in a very destitute African American community that was too poor to afford most of what the products sold. It took him several hours, just sitting behind the counter spinning quarters on the counter to notice that most of the people walking in and out were African American. He sat up, his eyebrows furrowing a bit. He recalled living with his father and how all of the wealthy white men he had come across were openly racist. He could never understand why. Henry scowled from person to person, unaware of his intimidating stare until a mother pulled her daughter out the door. He noticed a group of obnoxiously loud, large thugs standing outside by a small black car.

He allowed himself one more scan of the area and shook his head. "If a white person walks through that door next, I'll go to college," he decided.

Henry stared at the door intensely and to his disbelief, a white male walked in with a wary expression.

A giggle came from behind him before he could react to such an outcome. He swung around so fast his chair tipped over and he fell. He didn't react to the pain: he was too busy gaping at the woman standing behind him carrying a box of Advil. She was African American. Not a very attractive looking woman. She was as thin as her bones would allow her to be, the fattest part of her being her snout nose; she was petite and her eyes sunken. Henry would have never imagined it was her who had giggled so softly.

She wore a red vest similar to his and a nametag that read Brianna.

"You work here?" he said.

Brianna scrunched her forehead in concern. "I told you about this job when you walked in asking," she reminded.

Henry nodded and stood, fixing his seat. "Right ...." He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes as she walked away. "Hey, are you sure ... you work here?"

She smirked. "What're you gonna do if I don't?"

Henry shivered. "Do ...?"

"Oh my God," she muttered. "I work here, Henry," she waved him off dismissively. "Don't worry."

She approached Henry ten minutes later looking severely uncomfortable. "Can you ... stop staring at me ... and check the customer out?"

Henry blinked at her and straightened, checking the Caucasian man out at the register. "I wasn't staring at you," he muttered. He glanced away then narrowed an eye questioningly. "I think...."