Unfinished Business

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Unfinished Business

I arrived home from work around six o’clock on the day after my first girlfriend, Faith’s, surprise visit.  As I walked up the stairs in my apartment building, I noticed the hallway was full of a delicious food aroma that was coming from my unit.  I found Faith in the kitchen, busily using pots, pans, and utensils that I didn't even remember I had.  As I mentioned a number of times before, I hate to cook.

“Hey Faith,” I greeted.

“Sissy honey, you’re home.  I hope you don’t mind, but I made dinner.”

“Why would I mind?” I asked.

“I got the feeling that your girlfriend didn’t like me too much.  Not that I blame her.  I made enough for three, just in case.” 

“Autumn won’t be joining us tonight,” I told her.

“Even better,” Faith said.  “More food and time for us to get reacquainted.”

I ventured further into the kitchen, closer to the intoxicating smells coming from steaming pots.  “What’s cooking?”

“I remembered your favorites,” she said, lifting the lid on a large pot. 

“Yum, greens with smoked side meat!”

“And….”  She opened the second pot’s lid.

“Brisket!  Wow, you really went all out.”

“I would have gotten a bottle of wine to go with, except for the obvious,” she said, patting her belly, reminding me that she was pregnant.  “I didn’t have much money left, anyway.  Oh, and I hope you weren’t planning on doing laundry anytime soon.  I helped myself to your stash of quarters.”

“No problem,” I said, although I was thrown off, because I keep my quarter jar on the upper shelf of my bedroom closet, which meant that Faith must had been in there to have come across it.  I took a mental inventory of other things she might have seen:  My sex toy box?  No big deal.  My sexy photo album was a bigger deal, but still not too bad, since she wouldn’t even know most of the women in the pictures….

Then, it hit me.  The bankers box full of my journals from the past 10 years sits on the same closet shelf as my quarter jar.  Even worse, I remembered having, just that morning, tossed my current journal, into its usual spot in the top drawer of my bedside table.  I cringed to recall that in that morning's entry I hadn't pulled any punches about how hurt and annoyed I felt