All the chairs and tables in Café Atlas were arranged in neat rows.
The manager, Greg, was a squat man. He had clothes that were billowy and unpatterned, but he kept his hair cropped short, as though all measures of fastidiousness might be condensed in one aspect of grooming. Despite his best efforts, Greg was also pathologically awkward and fully aware of the fact. He was unable to resist jokes – ones not even remotely funny – that forced him to live with unbearable self-consciousness. He always resolved to change, and always failed at the next opportunity.
Wendy was his true love – although she had not yet shown any reciprocal sign of interest. There were many plausible explanations for her reticence. He cut a very imposing figure, for example. And he knew if there was no conscious explanation, the subconscious was a bottomless depth. In fact, her subconscious desire for him was likely so strong, her only sensible coping method was to show him overwhelming indifference.
When Wendy went missing, Greg was the foremost suspect.
When given the slightest provocation, the staff at Café Atlas were willing – eager, by the detective’s description – to bury their manager in accusations. Putting aside subconscious desires, Greg’s known desires were a subject for the staff’s constant gossip. Greg, of course, maintained all accusations were entirely unfounded. Indeed, he was so distraught by Wendy’s disappearance, he offered to lead a tireless search party. The detective politely, if not sternly, rejected his help.
A week passed and Wendy remained missing.
The looks Greg began receiving at Café Atlas grew dark. He acted as he normally did, which unfortunately did not reassure anyone. One evening, outside work, Greg was confronted by one of Wendy’s family members. The man was burly, with overly tight clothing and beady eyes. Greg smiled nervously at the man and tried to sidle around, his hands harmlessly raised. The man shoved him, and Greg tumbled backwards, knocking into a metal garbage bin. His hand was torn as he fell in the scattered garbage.
Greg got unsteadily to his feet. A car that had plenty of space honked at him. A crowd began to form on the sidewalk, looking interested but not invested. The family member collected himself under the presence of the crowd, offered a final curse at Greg, and then knocked his way through the onlookers. With his uninjured hand, Greg pushed himself to his feet. His clothes felt sodden with street grime and garbage. He kept his head down and hurried away.
At home, he attempted to clean and bandage his hand. The next morning his hand felt on fire, swollen and grotesque. He peeled away part of the bandage, but lost his nerve and took several painkillers from the cabinet instead. He called in sick for work and felt the indifference of his assistant manager, who assured him to “feel better” before hanging up. Greg still did not have the nerve to remove his bandages, so decided to pour antiseptic over them, letting it soak through. He took another pair of painkillers and collapsed on his couch.
Two weeks later Wendy showed up.
She had decided to quit her job without notice and take an impromptu camping trip, completely off the grid. She was surprised to return to a fanfare, including a detective that questioned her. The detective asked her why she had not told anyone where she was going. She had replied, “Why should I?” The detective had scratched his head, but concluded the questioning.
Three weeks later, the body of Greg was found in his apartment. His death was determined to be a complication from infection. The coroner doing the report had shaken his head, thinking how the man must have been an idiot not to go to the hospital.
When Wendy heard the news, she shrugged. “Oh, he was always a creep,” she said. She had been re-hired at Café Atlas and the assistant manger had been promoted. In Greg’s absence, the staff were all much happier.
END.