Chapter 104 His thoughts
Fred never experienced the quiet desperation with which the afternoon dragged on.
For hours he stayed in the library and pretended to be working. His attention was diverted as the sun moved across the carpet signifying the unrelenting march of time.
Expecting to hear Annabel return he kept his eyes on the door.
It hurt like a tiny sharp ache every minute that went by without her key making contact with the lock.
The silence was too much for him. It was seven o'clock in the evening when Fred finally shut down his laptop.
Outside the city was beginning to come alive with the dim illumination of street lamps.
His muscles were tense from hours of forced inactivity so he got up and stretched.
When he entered the living room he was instantly struck by how empty it was. The apartment was silent. Too motionless. He raised his gaze to the upper floor.
The door to Annabel's room was closed. He hadn't heard her return.
He approached the window and looked out but the street was only a haze of lights and traffic.
A heavy uneasy worry settled in his gut.
“Where had she gone to?” he wondered. “Did I really push her away?”
He entered the kitchen at a leisurely pace. When he left the kitchen that morning it was still immaculate.
All of a sudden the orderliness felt chilly and lonely. He determined that he required a diversion. He’d prepare food.
After opening the refrigerator he took out rice, some marinated chicken strips and chopped vegetables for a basic stir-fry.
After turning on the rice cooker he focused on the wok and heated it too high.
The clatter of the metal cutlery was a pleasant sound in the oppressive silence. His thoughts were far away while he chopped a red bell pepper.
Her last words, the cool dismissal in her voice, were repeated over and over.
He shook his head attempting to get his mind straight. He had to concentrate on the current task.
He drizzled the hot wok with oil. It sizzled right away making a loud violent noise. He heard a faint sound coming from the stairway as he reached for the bowl of chicken.
A faint nearly inaudible sound of motion. With the chicken in his hand he froze and listened carefully.
Not a word. It must have been in his mind.
“Annabel?” he called hesitantly.
The sound of his voice filled the silent kitchen with hope and volume.
No response was received.
With a sigh he realized that the hope was gone as fast as it had come. He filled the wok with the chicken.
Even though the sizzling got louder he had to check. He used a towel to wipe his hands before making his way to the bottom of the stairs.
He glanced up staring at the bedroom door that was closed. There was a long dark shadow cast by the upper hallway.
He raised his voice a bit and said “Are you back?”
Nothing. There was complete silence.
Standing there speaking to an empty staircase he felt silly. He turned back to his cooking.
He saw her satchel, the one she had left behind on the little marble table near the front door as he was doing so.
She had returned. She was at home.
He experienced a surge of profound relief which was immediately followed by a sudden intense irritability.
Hours had passed since she returned but she had not spoken. She purposefully kept up the cold war they had initiated.
His steps were sharper and more irritated as he returned to the kitchen. She had stayed at home the entire time he had been worrying uncontrollably.
He used needless force to stir the chicken. He made the decision to keep his diversion going.
It appeared as though the kitchen floor needed a quick cleaning. He began by dragging a mop from the closet and moving it back and forth over the shiny tiles.
He was cleaning an imaginary stain when he smelled garlic and burnt sugar.
“Oh hell” he swore growling softly.
He whirled around dropping the mop. From the wok a plume of grey acrid smoke rose.
His cleaning frenzy left the chicken behind causing it to become blackened and adhere to the metal.
He grabbed the wok from the stove and quickly moved it to the sink where he turned on the cold water.
Steam and a sudden hiss filled the kitchen. His worry and rage had consumed him so much that he had ruined dinner.
He began to scrub the charred wok.
It was still hot on the metal. He ignored the heat and reached for a sponge. His hands back scraped the hot wok edge as he applied pressure to a particularly obstinate piece of burnt food.
With a sharp uncontrollable gasp he withdrew his hand. His left hand caught his attention.
He already had a long red welt developing on his knuckles.
Taking a deep breath he turned off the water. He grabbed a small amount of burn cream from the first aid kit.
Even though he was an expert at maintaining control he had just burned his hand and dinner due to his incessant thoughts about the quiet woman upstairs.
The unfinished rice cooker was his only company as he sat down heavily at the dining table.
There was still a lingering smoke odor. The pulsing pain in his hand served as a physical anchor for his inner turmoil as he buried his head in them.
He was aware of what he ought to do. He should apologize for his coldness that morning. He should explain his fear without giving away his secrets.
It sounded ridiculous but what could he say?
He lifted his head and looked toward the stairs again.
The anger had faded, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. He merely desired a return to normalcy.
Even if she was arguing with him, all he wanted to hear was her voice.
He got up and made his way to the bottom of the stairs resolving to disregard self-preservation and professional boundaries.
He had to speak with her. Slowly he started up the stairs. He arrived at the landing and proceeded to her door by walking down the hallway.
He hesitated before raising his hand to knock.
He could hear a faint, almost scratchy rhythmic sound coming from inside her room. He had previously heard the same sound.
He leaned his head toward the door and lowered his hand. The sound had become distinct: a short scraping sweep, a brief pause and then the sound again.
It seemed like a brush on canvas.
She had been painting. He recalled what she had said in the morning.He stood there for a long moment listening to the quiet determined sound of her anger being transformed into art.
As intense as his own need for control he saw a new side of her that was private and contained.
She was erecting her own barriers. His admiration for her strength was suddenly intense and he was deeply saddened by the wall separating them.