Rhonda closes the door behind her, not quite a slam but just about. She releases me from her grip, almost throwing my arm aside. She storms to her side of the desk but doesn’t sit down on her chair.
“I tried calling you last night,” she snaps. “As soon as I heard, I called.”
“I turned my phone off.”
“More than ten times I called. I was worried.”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel like talking.”
“Not even to me?”
I sigh. What can I say that won’t disappoint my girlfriend? Sure, she is my boss but she was my girlfriend before she was my boss. I mean in the chronological sense; we were dating before she got her promotion. Everyone knew, but no one really cared.
“I’m sorry, Rhonda, yesterday was difficult for me. I found someone’s foot in a discarded Red Chesterfield and inadvertently set off a murder investigation. I had to give my fingerprints and DNA to the police so they won’t confuse me with the murderer. I just wanted to go home and calm down and forget the day.”
The anger in her face fades. She steps around her desk and wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry,” she says with a sob. “You’re right. I’m being selfish.” Her sobs become so intense that she can no longer talk.
My shirt front, the one I washed last night, is wet.