Instead of circling the rows of parked cars by the entrance, Wren settled for a spot near the back of the lot. When she began running errands, the early spring sun was just above the horizon; presently, it cast short shadows. She slipped off her jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat before stepping out of her vehicle and walking toward the big-box retailer.
From inside the store, an elderly gentleman watched the automatic doors pull apart and recognized the change in Wren’s expression as she entered. In his line of work, he had grown accustomed to this phenomenon. He greeted her, but his words failed to register.
She stood perplexed, partially blocking the store’s entrance. Other customers politely slipped around her, like water in a stream, redirected by a protruding rock.
“Something I can help with, ma’am?” the old man tried.
She looked at him, nonplussed by his question. “No, thanks. I, uh—sorry,” she sputtered.
“Forget why you’re here?” His close-lipped smile revealed a hint of satisfaction.
Wren’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked behind her at the automatic doors, as if the answer was on the other side.
“It’s called the doorway effect,” he said. “You walk through those doors, and your mind loses its place. Something about the transition.” His explanation sounded practiced, like he had given it a hundred times before. “They say if you carry something across the threshold, it helps you remember.”
Wren remembered her last errand.
A spattering of raindrops clunked against Wren’s windshield as she returned to Tony’s apartment. Tony’s apartment, she thought—not their apartment. Wren put on her jacket, grabbed a brown paper gift bag from the backseat, and attempted to open her door, but a gust of wind thwarted her initial effort. She tried again, this time shoving with enough force. She hurried toward the entrance, head down, the brown bag tucked within her jacket. Sheets of rain now smacked the sidewalk.
Wren expected the apartment to still be a mess, and she was right. She slid off her shoes, hung up her wet jacket, and placed the birthday gift she had bought for Tony’s mother on the entryway table. “Tony?” she called out. There was no response.
She walked down the hallway, nudged his bedroom door open, and peeked inside. Amidst a pile of unfolded laundry, Tony had fallen asleep.
Wren had left once before, but second-guessed herself after driving several hours lacking an obvious destination. She thought she must have been overreacting, lost sight of why she had left.
Tony called, she listened, he said all the right things, and she deceived herself into believing he would change.
She couldn’t let that happen again.
Wren retreated down the hallway back toward the apartment door. She put on her wet shoes and slipped back into her jacket.
On the entryway table sat the birthday present she had bought Tony’s mother. She reached in the bag and pulled out a lemon-scented candle.
Wren closed her eyes, brought the candle up to her nose, and breathed in deeply. Tucking it under her jacket, she turned the doorknob, pushed through, and returned to the rain.
Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher who writes first drafts on an old typewriter in a small nook beneath his basement steps. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.