Page 11 of Stranger Session

Idrive on familiar roads with familiar landmarks. Similar trees welcome me as I travel toward the house in the woods. The normal part of my brain keeps waving a red flag, telling me to stop what I’m doing. The irrational part keeps lighting that fucking flag on fire. Regardless of which side is winning, the rational question remains.

What if she didn’t use her real name?

I didn’t find anyone named Mariah in our area. If she didn’t lie on her paperwork, she either keeps a very private profile or she doesn’t have social media. Who doesn’t have social media these days? It’s like she’s a ghost.

If she’s a ghost, then I’m being haunted by the taste of her. By the sound of her whimpers and moans. By the fruity scent that is so uniquely hers. I’ve become obsessed with that smell. My brain fabricates it in realistic clarity, and I chase it into a dead end every time.

I pull into the driveway and look around. The lights areoff, and no cars wait in the driveway. I couldn’t have planned this more perfectly if I’d tried.

When I was here for the photo shoot, I didn’t notice any cameras, so I push my hands into some gloves and head for the front door first. The doorknob doesn’t twist, so I try the back door next. Still no luck, but the window beside the back door is open just a crack. I slide it along its track, grip the sill, and enter the house.

I pace through the shadows and try to remember where Sarah placed the contracts. I remember signing it, but not what she did with it afterward. Each doorknob twists beneath my gloved grasp, but I find no new leads. An empty bedroom. A walk-in pantry. The bathroom. The last room I try is her office.

Several kitted-out cameras sit on the desk. Pictures adorn a clothesline that drapes between the walls. My eyes catch on one of the photos beside me.

It’s us.

My hand is buried in her hair, and the smile on my face makes me unrecognizable to myself. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled like that before. And Mariah? Her dimples punctuate each cheek on either side of her giant smile. My eyes rove down the beautiful curve of her back on my lap. Fuck, it’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful.

And I like how I look beneath her.

I snatch down the picture and replace it with one of the loose photographs scattered on the desk before turning my attention to the filing cabinet beside it. I open a drawer and thumb through the papers inside until I land on pay dirt.

The contracts.

I go through each paper until I find ours, and then I write down her info on a notepad and pocket it. On myway out, I notice an eye drop bottle on the kitchen counter and remember Sarah’s littleass-istant using it to wash the marijuana from his glassy eyes. Just the thought of that guy makes my blood boil again. I’m going to explode.

I need to leave before I do something I’ll regret. All for Mariah. The woman who probably has no interest in seeing me ever again.

Mariah

I doodle on a napkin during the brief lull at work as my thoughts return to the photo shoot. It’s rekindled a bit of my drive to draw again. I used to draw all the time, but then life at a mundane job got the best of me. I haven’t picked up a pen to put it on paper to draw in at least a year. A coffee stain grows in the top right corner of my picture from a spill I didn’t realize was there.

Fuck it. It adds to the picture.

The service bell rings, and I fold up the drawing and shove it into my pocket before returning to the counter to take orders. Once I’ve handed over the two black coffees, I recede into my mind again. But the creative fountain has ceased to flow.

Did I mention I hate this job? I don’t even drink fucking coffee.

The bell dings again, and I hurry to fill yet another order. I don’t even bother to look at the man’s face. After so long, they all seem to blur togetheranyway.

“Thanks,” the man says as I slide his drink across the counter.

The voice stops me from moving away. I look up and see a face that matches the familiarity of the voice. His dark eyes rove down my stained apron.

“Y-you’re welcome,” I say, like an idiot.

“Do you remember me?”

My cheeks flush. “Yes, from the photo shoot.”

“Sam,” he says as he pulls a bottle of eye drops from his pocket and proceeds to use them in a fucking coffee shop.

It’s that creepy assistant from the photo shoot. I lick my lips, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and force a smile onto my face. “It was nice to see you again, Sam, but I gotta get back to work. Sorry!”

I rush away before he can say anything else.

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