Where Is He?
By Sara Copeland

It was the first day in thirty-eight days he didn't come. Almost like Pavlov's dogs, I had been waiting to fulfill the routine. At first, I thought he was just running late. Bad traffic, I thought. Had to run an errand. Careless people. I'm never late. It was the first time in thirty-eight days his car didn't pull into the gravel, the first time his dirty sneakers didn't make their way on to the porch, the firs time his look of disappointment didn't show at my door. Susanne warned me about this. "Keep slamming that door in his face and he won't come back," she said, as if I needed a spunky 29-year old to show up at my door everyday, interrupting my crossword puzzles. My whole routine had been thrown off by the now eerily quiethouse. The first time in thirty-eight days it had been this quiet.Even my crossword puzzle seemed strangely different. Then again, they had never been the same after Mark left. Funny how when I mention his departure, people assume he passed away. Seventy-three is a little late for a mid-life crisis. But for all I know, he's still gambling his life away in some smoky casino in Vegas while I'm stuck here with that persistent boy. Where is he? He normally comes at three and it's nearly four o'clock.Susanne won't even come over for another hour and a half. Goodness, the house is so quiet. Mark used to have his friends over for poker all the time. He always went into the hole, bless his heart. There were times we'd skimp on groceries or the water bill so he could play with his friends. But it made him happy. Oh, it made him happy. He used to help me out with my crossword puzzles every once in a while. They were just a cinch for him. Where is that boy? I remember he left his number somewhere around here in case I needed him. I probably threw it away though. After all, I don't really need him. He's more a nuisance than anything. I told Susanne that those kids are so unreliable now, and she just tsk tsked at me.Still, there are times his spunk reminds me of Mark. Mark used to come home with a bouquet of flowers and practically dance through the front door after a good day at the office. I remember on the seventeenth day that boy came over, he brought me flowers. God knows how he found out what kind Mark used to bring, but he did. Susanne kept them fresh and watered, but now, on the thirty-eighth day, they're dry and shriveled. I should probably throw them out. Maybe after I finish this crossword puzzle.Maybe something serious happened. As much as it's a frustration to have him show up every day, it'd be just terrible if he was in some kind of accident. Just one call won't hurt. Just a friendly ring to make sure he's not in the hospital. Goodness, I sound like a desperate 16-year old waiting for her sweetheart to call. Mark used to call when we first met and we'd have conversations late into the night. Goodness, we had grand times back then. Nothing those young people would know about now, with their backseats in the movie theaters and casual dating.He'll come back tomorrow, still with his grungy sneakers. That kid's got more determination than I know what to do with. Well, I suppose I'll start supper so Susanne won't have to.Is that the doorbell? Probably just Susanne, she'll let herself in. But if it's him, I think today will be the first time in thirty-eight days I'll invite him inside, even if he is a little bit late. After all, I don't think he's tasted my cinnamon bread yet, and if I do say so myself, it's a masterpiece.

(Beginning Creative Writing Workshop)