Friday the 6th - 4:58 p.m.
Yesterday I went into the record store where I work at part-time and apologized to Balder for not being there the past week.
Balder owns the store. He said he hadn't even noticed that I had been gone then he made me assistant manager. So, I picked up some new used records and went home.
It took me six consecutive listens of an Interpol album to scrub away the text of the letter that I found inside the trunk, that Shannon had left me in her will off of my living room wall. I don't remember writing it on there, but it was obviously my handwriting.
My knuckles are still bleeding, I reek of detergent, and I am now completely out of paper towels.
Today, when I got home from teaching the class that I took over from my mentor, who has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, there was a flier tucked underneath the doorknob of my front door. It's a missing person flier. I get these tucked under my doorknob all the time.
However, today was the first time I recognized the person on the flier.
It's one of the prostitutes, who are always hanging around outside the apartment of my neighbor who owns the large barking dogs, and is also the residence's handyman. My crazy landlady told me he has permission to be inside my apartment whenever he wants.
I recognized her because when my front door was broken, she once gave me a boost to help me climb through my kitchen window and get back inside my apartment. She had red crimson lips, sad eyes, and looked younger than the others. I have a bad feeling they're not going to find her.
In the picture on the flier, she looks much different. She looks happy.
It's nice to know she was happy once.