Flash! Fiction 3 by Peter McMillan - HTML preview

36

When she answered, I shouted into the speaker. I always say it's Leslie. She likes Leslie, and it's kinda funny, because she thinks I'm saying, "Wesley." That's her son she hasn't seen in years. Not my problem though.

This time of day, the ankle biters and slackers are napping, so I caught an empty elevator to the 7th floor and was at my door ...

sans keys. Duh! Luckily, I hadn't left my cell at work either, so I phoned the super, who, more good luck for me, was on 6 finishing up with Miss Rossi.

After agonizing minutes, I was in my apartment trying to recall where I'd put that damn ticket. Couldn't be in my Play— No, first place Leslie would've looked. The Hemingway — Mariel, not the other one — under the TV guide? No, that was last month. Taped to the back of my dresser? Hadn't tried that yet. In the freezer behind the ice-cube trays? Done that. Underneath the bottom plate in the kitchen cabinet? Not sure, so I checked. Nope. Inside the vent cover behind the headboard? Too much heavy lifting and way too dusty. Wouldn't have bothered. The bathroom? Maybe, but where?

When I opened the door to the bathroom, the toilet was lying on its side. On the mirror in red lipstick, "13-40-63-2-18-39" with "63-2"

double underlined. Sixty-three square feet — the area I counted every morning after too much dairy. Now, I remembered. But how would Leslie have known? And that red ... that wasn't Leslie's. It was mine and it was in my purse this morning.

First published on the Short Humour Site, April 4, 2014.