Twenty-Five
Thoughts of George’s death start to preoccupy me. I sit at my desk and register for my classes for the winter quarter and imagine him in a car crash or a bad fall. Perhaps an unfortunate drowning in our apartment’s cloudy pool where he swims laps every morning. I imagine his lifeless body, his empty gaze.
Umma would be devastated, but there wouldn’t be anybody left for her to wait for. After a few months, she would move on to someone new. We would move on.
Geoffrey and I are taking two classes together this quarter: Asian American Studies 7: Asian American Movement and History 4C: History of Japan, per his recommendation. We text almost daily now; he sends me cat pictures and listens to me vent about George.
I know. I wish there was some way I could help you… 
It is. 
I appreciate you so much!!!!! You’re such a good friend.
Lol anytime 
I exit out from our chat and accidentally click on another thread. My stomach drops. It’s the group chat between Jenny, Sarah, Han-byeol, and me. The one that has been completely silent since Thanksgiving break. I read through the messages, ignoring the agony I feel, and press the delete button. The entire thing disappears. Gone. Poof.
I don’t need them. I have Geoffrey now.
George walks in, keys jingling in his hands. He’s returning from a meeting with a client, and he’s wearing a suit and a shiny black pair of oxfords, which he doesn’t bother removing before lumbering onto the carpet. Umma has told him a dozen times not to wear shoes inside the apartment, but he does it anyway. Because of him, the carpet by the door is stained black.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. Since the night of the apology, he’s been unfriendly. Not that I mind. Grunting, he walks into Umma’s bedroom. He sounds like a pig. He is a pig. As soon as his back is turned, I envision myself driving a knife into his neck.