Page 18 of Hunger

Everything's where I left it. The stone on the nightstand. The jasmine in its paper cup on the desk, the petals beginning to drop now that it's been three days. The clothes on the floor. The textbooks in their accusing pile. The violin case in the corner.

Nothing.

I get up and cross to the window and check the latch. The latch is closed. I check the closet. The closet is empty except for my coats. I look under the bed even though I haven't looked under a bed since I was eight years old.

Nothing.

I stop in the middle of my room in my T-shirt and underwear and feel like I'm missing something I can't name.

The kitchen is empty. Lisa's bedroom door is open and the bed is unmade — she has class at seven on Mondays. The coffee maker is full from her morning brew. I pour myself a cup and stand at the counter and look out the window above the sink at the parking lot below. Snow has fallen overnight. My car is buried under another inch.

I drink my coffee. The cold edge in my apartment is gone, or it's faded enough that I can't feel it anymore. I tell myself I imagined it.

I get ready and drive to the mall.

The shift is normal. Tammy is on. We have a steady stream of lunch customers from the offices nearby and a few mall walkers who come in for coffee and stay too long. Tammy and I work through the rush and into the slow afternoon and I almost forget about the morning.

Almost.

There's a moment around three-thirty when I'm wiping down the counter and Tammy is in the back doing the inventory and the food court is empty, and I look up from my work and the food court suddenly feels enormous. The ceiling has gone higher. The empty tables have spread further apart than they were a moment ago. I have the sudden, foolish thought that someone's watching me.

I look around. There's the woman at the Orange Julius with her face in a magazine. There's the man at the pretzel place who's on a phone call. There's the security guard who replaced Craig — a short woman named Diane who hasn't introduced herself but who I've seen walking the same route Craig walked, in the same brown uniform, at the same hours.

No one's watching me.

I shake it off. I finish wiping the counter. Tammy comes back from the inventory and complains about Dale's penmanship on the order sheets and the moment passes.

I close at nine. Tammy and I walk out together. The wind has picked up and the new snow is starting to blow across the lot in low drifts. I drive home, park in my usual spot, cross the lot, climb the stairs, and let myself into the apartment.

The apartment is warm. Lisa is at the kitchen table. She looks up.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"There's leftover stew on the stove. Help yourself."

"You made stew?"

"Dee made stew. She came by between classes and said she wanted to remember what her kitchen looked like." Lisa shrugs. "She left it for us."

I look at the pot on the stove. The lid is on. The pot is warm to the touch.

I don't know how to respond to two acts of kindness from my roommates in a week. I'm not sure what's happening. I ladle some of the stew into a bowl and eat it standing at the counter. It's good. The beef is tender and the broth is rich. Dee can apparently cook. I hadn't known.

"Thanks," I say.

Lisa doesn't look up. "Tell Dee."

"I will."

I rinse the bowl and go to my room.

I sit on the bed and look at the cup of jasmine on the desk. The petals are dropping. I should throw it out. I'm not going to throw it out. I should ask one of my roommates if they put it in my car as a joke. I'm not going to ask. They'd tell me they didn't. I know they didn't.

I look at the stone on the nightstand. Black and smooth. I pick it up and roll it between my fingers. The weight is familiar now.

I put it back. I get into bed.