Prompt 4 - Notes

A man receives an unexpected message.

Toby was drinking coffee when the note came.

              Or did it just appear? He was alone when the piece of loose leaf asserted itself on the kitchen counter. It’s not like someone could have come in uninvited either"the benefits of a seventh floor apartment. The front door looked pristine as it ever was (and it wasn’t very) and all of the apartment’s latches and locks were sealed to combat the chill of the February breeze. Whatever its origins, the note was there now. Picking it up, Toby took another swig from his trusty mug and read.

‘Stay home’

              A simple command in simpler handwriting. Toby scanned the pencil-scrawled message again, then again. The handwriting, neat, yet hasty, oozed with familiarity, but he couldn’t imagine why. An icy finger traced down his neck as he considered the implications. Was it a threat? Who did he know who was capable of such a thing? Why was the message so short? Why do this? Battered by questions, Toby gingerly placed his mug on the counter, his hand trembling as it released the handle. He listened. The apartment was silent save for the comforting hum of the heater barely registering over the howling wind outside. That’s when he heard it. The bedroom. A thump barely audible behind the closed door. Leaving the note on the counter, Toby marched over to the adjacent room and barged in. Curtains drawn, the bedroom was dark save for the light from the kitchen. Toby groped the wall for the light switch and was rewarded with the sterile, yet welcome, glow of the fluorescent bulb dangling above his bed.

              The room was disheveled"socks and shirts littered the dusty floor. The bed lay bare save for an untucked sheet and a blanket hanging over the side as though someone had just emerged. It was exactly as he had left it. Allowing himself a self-deprecating smirk, Toby resumed his task and scanned the room for the source of the noise. A half-finished glass of water sat on the end table next to the ashtray, still crowded from the night before. Ash spilled over the sides and onto the surface of the wooden table, below which sat two dumbbells and a pair of snow boots still damp with frost. Inching into the room and closing the door behind him, Toby glanced at his calendar"the page packed with appointments and written by a weary hand. That day was marked with the words ‘Meet w/ Meryl-12:30 ON TIME, the latter bit accentuated by three rough underlines. ‘Time enough for that,’ he thought to himself. A sharp rattling from the windows brought Toby back to the present"the wind shook the panes like an animal in a cage. Peering through one curtain he was greeted by another"snow had all but covered the windows and the rest of the world was obstructed by blankets of falling powder.

              Stepping over a pair of tan slacks, Toby made his way to the closet in the corner. With a light grip on the handle, he took a short breath and pulled it open. Tidier than the rest of the room, the closet showed no signs of intrusion save for a parka lying on the floor. ‘Must have fell off the hanger,’ Toby mused to himself. Picking the navy blue garment off of the floor, he shook it a few times and dislodged a family of dust bunnies. Satisfied, he replaced the coat on its hangar and pushed it back among the rest. As he moved to shut the door, a sliver of light reflected off of an object in the coat’s pocket"a slip of loose leaf paper. Fishing it out from the parka, Toby held it in the sterile glow of the fluorescent bulb.

‘645-2990’

              A number. The paper was crumpled and darkened by its time spent in the closet, but the penciled writing was still clear enough to read. Toby frowned. It was different handwriting"much curlier and petite. Shutting the closet door behind him, Toby made his way to the head of the bed. The charger was sitting firmly in the power outlet where he had left it the night before, but his phone was nowhere to be found. On a whim, he crouched next to the slacks he had stepped over before and shook them. The tinkle of metal. Keys, money. Reaching into the left pocket, Toby pulled out his phone, the display glowing with an image of a red battery. Typical. Plugging the phone into the charger, he took a seat on the side of the bed and breathed. The room was silent save for the rhythmic rattle of windows. As the phone regained charge, the screen changed into a picture of a beach at sunset"a picture he had taken ages ago. The clock read 10:44. Still early. Shaking his head, Toby dialed the number he had found on the note. No contacts, no prior calls. Made sense"he wasn’t much of a conversationalist anyways. Where the contact list had failed, however, the text inbox bore fruit. A slew of messages to and from 645-2990 only days before, all read and replied to. With baited breath, he opened the conversation.

Toby- ‘Hey, it’s me. Sunday still work?’

645-2990- ‘yes’

Toby- ‘Okay. Your place at 2’

645-2990- ‘Can we do 12:30? Busy later.’

Toby- ‘Okay.’

645-2990- ‘Been a while. : )

Toby- ‘Yea. See you then’

 

Toby smirked and let the phone charge. Rising from the bed, he flicked the light switch and returned to the kitchen only to be greeted by the blistering embrace of frigid air. The window above the sink sat open outward, allowing a hill of powder to form near the drain. Dancing around the counter Toby reached into the chill and, with a grunt, slammed the window shut, sliding the latch as tightly as he could. Cursing, he shifted his focus back to the counter, now bare save for his mug of coffee. Squatting under the counter he found nothing. The floor was bare, save for a few tiny puddles where snow had landed. Toby shifted to the trash can and turned it over, rummaging past the jumble of wrappers, an empty liquor bottle, receipts, and coffee grounds. As mysteriously as it had appeared, the note had vanished. Running to the front door, he turned the door knob and pushed"the locks were still firmly sealed. Nothing amiss.

Shaking his head, Toby returned to the counter and took a swig of coffee. Stale already. Pouring the rest into the sink, the drone of the heater was interrupted by a buzz from the bedroom. Toby left the mug in the sink and retreated, the phone’s display illuminating the room. 645-2990. A call. Toby let it ring a few times, then, with a brief exhale, answered.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Great weather, huh?”

Toby smirked.

“Yea.”

“Can you still make it? We can always meet later.”

Toby glanced at the kitchen counter. The note had not returned.

“No, it’s alright"I want to.”

“Alright. Be careful.”

Toby nodded to no one in particular.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

              She hung up. Putting the phone in his pocket, Toby gathered his keys and wallet from the pants on the floor, then returned to the closet emerging with the navy blue parka and a cardboard box, the name ‘Meryl’ etched on the side in neat, yet hastily-written pencil. Stepping into his boots, Toby zipped up the parka and edged through the bedroom doorway. Slapping the light switch, Toby shut the door behind him and tromped to the front door. The flick of a latch, the creak of a door and the turning of a key later, the apartment was quiet once again.