The Loop
The Audit
Nothing you did yesterday counts.
Listen to this story
1:40 AM.
The overhead light snaps on.
The heavy canvas zipper tears open across the floorboards.
They sit up in bed, shielding their eyes, sheets bunched at the waist.
The closet door stands wide open. Wooden hangers rattle and clatter against the metal rod.
Clothes are pulled off the wire in fistfuls—sweaters, dark jeans, tangled shirts—and jammed into the duffel bag.
“What are you doing?”
The other person doesn’t answer. A pair of running shoes is kicked into the bag.
“It’s quarter to two. What are you doing?”
A dresser drawer yanks open. Screeches on its metal track. Hits the wooden stop with a loud thwack.
“I’m doing you a favor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at your face.” The other person turns around, arms full of rolled socks. “You’re relieved. You’ve been waiting for me to do this for three months.”
“I was asleep!”
“You don’t have the courage to say it, so I’m saying it for you.”
The bag zips shut with one long, savage yank.
Car keys clatter off the dresser into a palm.
Shoes shoved on, backs of the heels crushed down.
The heavy canvas strap slung over one shoulder.
They throw off the covers. Bare feet hit the cold floorboards.
Socks skidding across the wood in the dark.
The front door chain rattles.
The brass thumb-turn of the deadbolt begins to rotate.
They hit the door with both open palms just as the latch clicks back.
Shoulder slamming against the painted wood.
Bodies colliding in the narrow entryway.
“Move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Get your fucking hands off the door!”
Chests heaving against each other. Sweat stinging the eyes. Breath hot and ragged against the neck.
Two hands clamping down hard over two wrists, pinning the lock.
The other person yanks back with their entire body weight, wrenching at the canvas strap.
“Let me go! You don’t even want me here! You haven’t wanted me here since November!”
The strap stitching pops with a sharp, dry tear.
Cold concrete stairwell on the other side of the wood.
One step back. That’s all it would take.
Instead, their knees buckle.
They drop straight onto the linoleum.
Both arms locked around the other person’s waist, face buried in the rough denim of the thigh.
“I want you here,” they choke out against the jeans. “I’m begging you. Do not walk out that door.”
The other person goes rigid.
Three seconds of dead silence.
The duffel bag drops.
A heavy, dull thud on the floorboards.
The other person sinks down too. Knees cracking against the linoleum.
Arms coming around their head, fingers tangled in hair.
Ugly, gasping sobs. Shivering jaws pressed together in the dark hallway.
“Do you swear?” the other person gasps into their ear. “Swear you want me here.”
“I swear. I swear to God.”
Kisses tasting of salt and bile. Hands clawing at shirts.
Dragging each other back down the hall into the bedroom.
Tangled under the quilt until three in the morning.
Then sleep.
7:15 AM.
Pale daylight through the blinds.
The alarm buzzes on the nightstand.
Caught on the first ring.
Shoulders sore. Left temple throbbing.
The other person is curled in a tight ball under the duvet, breath slow and deep.
They slide out of bed.
Bare feet down the hallway.
In the middle of the narrow entryway, in front of the deadbolt:
The duffel bag.
Still zipped shut. Bulging across the welcome mat.
They lift their foot and step over the strap.
Behind them, a floorboard creaks.
The other person is leaning against the bedroom doorframe, mug in hand.
“You stepped over it.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The bag. You didn’t unpack it.”
And they’re right back where they started.