Formerly Fingerman by Joe Nelms

sure his wife wasn’t still home and there would be no strange workmen servicing his, err, apartment. Gracie was not the one person he was interested in saying goodbye to. But his clothes and PlayStation weren’t going to pack themselves.
    There was no answer at the apartment, so he called her cell phone. When she picked up, he heard the sounds of the street. It sounded like she was out, so he hung up. She was usually headed to spinning right about now. Or maybe to sleep with the Knicks. She had one of those flexible schedules.
    â€œAll right.”
    This time James didn’t give Brad the crazy eye. Just the usual I’m-clocked-in-until-six-whether-you-need-me-or-not greeting, as if everything had been a dream or somehow forgotten. Brad couldn’t help but wonder how many Gracie-and-cable-guy type of hookups James was aware of. Must have been dozens. Brad couldn’t be the only one getting cuckolded here, right? It’s a big city. This was a big building. Twenty-five floors of opportunity. His mind reeled with the possibilities. And who knows what James thought of Brad walking in with a stiff like Brittany and a stallion like Stump. Did Brad now have the stink of adultery by association? Was it just another day at the office for James? Infidelity another delivery to be signed for?
    Brad stepped over to ask his doorman who else was getting their cable upgraded on a regular basis, but James cut him off with some rote politeness.
    â€œYes, sir. Nice weather, isn’t it? Can I get you a cab?”
    â€œI just walked in.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Brad held his gaze on James for a beat, but the guy kept looking out to the street like a fully realized idiot. Those secrets were going to the grave with him.
    â€œIs my wife still here?”
    â€œOh, no sir. She left about an hour ago. Looked like she was headed to the gym.”
    â€œUh-huh. Thanks.”
    Brad headed for the elevator.
    â€œOh, and congratulations Mr. Fingerman. She said you finally got HBO. She seemed thrilled.”
    Stump and Brittany waited in the lobby to give Brad the last bit of privacy he would enjoy for a long time. There was virtually no chance Frank could have figured out Brad’s address yet, and Brad would be inside on a high floor for a brief amount of time, so this tiny breach could be allowed.
    Brad walked into his apartment to find it exactly as he left it this morning. The bed was made. The dishes were done. The view was fabulous. It still smelled a little like sex. So maybe not exactly as he left it this morning.
    He went to the bedroom closet, ripped a suitcase from the back of his top shelf and tossed it on the bed. He pulled every piece of clothing he had out of his closet and threw the pile into the open suitcase, hangers and all, like he’d seen in the movies so many times. Then he took them all out and removed the hangers. No way was that ever going to fit.
    Surrounded by the pictures and knickknacks that were now essentially memorabilia from his life with Gracie, he couldn’t help drifting back into a few fond memories. Their trip to Carmel. Skiing at Big Bear. That one summer they rented the house in the Hamptons and the gardener kept showing up to trim the same hedges every time Brad went for a jog on the beach. Wait. Dammit!
    Brad stormed into the bathroom and dumped all of his toiletries into a Dopp kit. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and realized he was crying. He was going to miss this life he and Gracie shared together. Aside from her revolving door of a vagina, it had been pretty nice. They got along pretty good for people who had been married for five years. They laughed at the same jokes, tended to like the same desserts, and both passionately hated Salma Hayek’s ridiculous accent. Really, aside from the whole vegan thing and her having relations with a high percentage of TV’s most coveted demographic behind his back, there weren’t any real problems.