Journey || Erik Durm

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CHARLOTTE:

          THE Durms' diner seemed to have a hollow aura that evening. As the sun began to set, a stream of moonlight filling in in the absence of the orange horizon, the diner's golden boy disappeared for the night, failing to return home even long after the darkness had fully taken over.

A group of journalists stood in front of the counter, probing Carolyn endlessly about him. Erik, I soon learned, was his name. Seeing the paparazzi, I began to wonder just what I didn't know about Carolyn and Erik and everyone around here.

Carolyn was a lovely woman—that, I knew—and Erik was the complete opposite, a senseless boy with an overly ruthless exterior—that I also knew—but they weren't anyone out of the ordinary. They were typical city-folk, maybe more generous than the usual, but quite ordinary nevertheless. So, why were so many journalists and photographers perpetually frequenting the diner? Was there a secret that everyone, with the exception of me, knew?

"They were here for a while," I observed, sauntering over to Carolyn as the journalists exited through the front door, causing the bell atop the door to jingle.

She flashed me a weary look, murmuring tiredly, "Oh, you have no idea, Charlotte."

"I guess this diner is just that good, huh," I replied, unsure of any other reason as to why they would claim this spot. "Even the writers and artists can't stop talking about it."

"Oh, honey, it isn't the diner at all—"

"Don't be modest!" I interjected, plastering a smile unto my face. "I'm sure it's because of the diner. It's so beautiful, Carolyn. I still don't know why you hired me."

Both of Carolyn's eyebrows raised to her forehead and for the brief moment that ensued, a flicker of astonishment crossed her face. "Charlotte, do you really not know why the reporters were here?" she asked slowly. "Are you teasing me, liebe?"

My lips parted slightly, formulating a nervous reply: "I'm sorry?"

"Do you really not know?" Carolyn pressed, her fatigued eyes boring into mine.

"Is there anything to know?" I countered, holding her gaze. Confused by her volatility of her behavior, I began to wonder what it was that I should have known.

"Never mind," she murmured at last, looking away. "I guess it's better if you didn't know."

"Are you sure?" I questioned, uncertain. "It seems important."

"It's really not. You'll find out eventually," she dismissed with a flick of her wrist. "Actually, Charlotte," she digressed, heaving out a sigh. The exhaustion that crossed her eyes then made me falter. "Can you go to the back and give Erik a call for me? He was supposed to be home an hour ago."

I opened my mouth to object because how could I confront Erik after everything that we had been through? Our every encounter leading to this moment had been laced with derision, ending in a tentative discomfort and frustration.

"Just go on, liebe," she ushered.

"Alright," I said softly. "What's his number?"

"Press five," she directed. "It'll land you to him."

I nodded, internalizing the number five before sauntering in the direction of the employee's room. I thought about what I would say to him on the fleeting journey there, and when I arrived and saw a vintage phone hanging by the wall, I felt my my pulses gathering more intensity by the second. I shakily pulled the phone off the wall, pressing five.

It took Erik seven dials to answer. I counted.

In the tranquility of the diner, the harsh cacophony on Erik's end of the line shattered the silence like runaway trains heading for broken tracks. An uncompromising noise infiltrated my ears as the the phone was answered, a German metal song barreling into my ears.