After these messages

So what if I'm fired, I'm fucking right! I swore under my breath the whole miserable way home. I got into the flat, threw the keys at the wall, and dropped my bag and box on the floor. I kicked off my shoes and started shedding my clothes on the way to the bath.  My sopping sweater landed with a splat on the floor, the shirt made it to a chair, the undershirt flew away into the living room, and  the pants, stockings and underwear made a tidy pile by the bathroom door. I turned the water on as hot as it would go and gave myself up to the scalding sea.

...

A while later, I hit the button on the message machine and started up the perker. The first two messages were from my mother; I'd call her later. Shit, I may need to borrow rent. This just gets better and better. The third message started as I was pouring, and as soon as I recognized the voice, I forgot everything. Until I burned the shit out my hand with boiling coffee. "Fuck!" I yelped; I grabbed a wet dishcloth from the sink before going back to the machine to hear the message again.

"Hey M--, it's me. Been a while, but I need a favor. Meet me at the old bookstore. It's now a coffee shop called Aleppo, if you haven't been since...yeah. Just meet me there tomorrow evening at 9. I'll make it worth your time." Click. 


Shit. I thought I was done with that chapter of my life. Just when things can't get any worse, they get...weird. 



















For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Nicole Purcell challenged me with "You are listening to your voicemails. When you hear the third message you freeze in your tracks at the sound of the voice on the line. Start from there." and I challenged Jester Queen with "You've been given a gift. You aren't supposed to question gifts...but maybe you should question this one. "