V. worried about J. now. He disappears for hours at a time after work. Sometimes he says that he’s been in his bedroom, thinking, but I know that’s not true because when I’ve looked in, he’s not there. Other times, he goes out into the rain with no coat on… he says he’s just going for a walk, but it always happens just after another of those damn phonecalls from his other-dimensional ex-wife.
On Sunday, I was sitting on my bed, reading a book, and had been for nearly two hours, when I got a little peckish for some of my special “dried meats”; you know the ones, dear Journal, the ones that I prepare myself and keep wrapped in wax paper in the driest nook of my walk-in cupboard. The ones that taste of lost loves.
I got up from the bed, scratched myself in the most anti-social of manners, and opened the door to said cupboard. Imagine my shock on finding J. in there, looking perplexed and a little sad.
I admit to losing my composure a little. I shouted:
“What the hell are you doing in there, J? I thought you were out? How long have you been in there?”
All he could say was “I thought I heard her” and “The rain washes all the trails away”, with that sad look on his face. It was a pretty long way to go for a prank; that’s my stance on it, Dear Journal. He must have stood there for hours, just to give me a fright. The least he could have done was look pleased with himself. I shushed him out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t have him dripping all over my clean clothes, and got him a towel… I don’t care if he does have a strange sense of humour, I still care about him catching a chill… and sent him on his way to his room.
Do you know, he’s so embarassed about that practical joke that he won’t even acknowledge it? He still claims, all these days later, that he had followed S’s trail to a door in a hidden wooded part of The Common, and the next thing he knew, I was ushering him out of my room. Pride, dear Journal, makes idiots of us all.