Page 65 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I study the wall.
This is my life.
This is the life I was protecting her from.
Day two is worse.
I wake up at 0500 hours, same as always, and I go through my morning routine with mechanical precision. Push-ups. Sit-ups. A protein shake that tastes like chalk and obligation.
I check my phone.
No messages.
I open my laptop and begin searching for new employment opportunities. My gig account is terminated, but I have other options. Security firms. Private contract work. Bodyguard positions for corporate executives who need someone large and intimidating standing near them during hostile negotiations.
I update my resume.
I send out applications.
I receive three responses within an hour, all of them interested in scheduling interviews.
This should feel like progress.
It feels like nothing.
I turn off the laptop and peer at the blank screen.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it immediately, my heart rate spiking in a way that is tactically unsound and biologically inconvenient.
It is not Bliss.
It is a notification from my bank, confirming that the refund for the canceled contract has been processed and returned to her account.
After setting the phone on the table, I relax on the sofa. The large cushions allow me to sink in and grow sleepy.
At 1300 hours, I force myself to go to the grocery store, because my meal-prep containers are empty and I am capable of maintaining my nutritional intake even during periods of emotional dysfunction.
The store is bright and crowded and filled with families purchasing absurd quantities of processed food.
I grab a cart and move through the aisles with tactical efficiency, selecting chicken breasts and vegetables and the same brand of protein powder I have been using for five years.
I turn down the frozen foods aisle and stop.
A small human woman is standing in front of the ice cream freezer, holding a pint in each hand, staring at them with the same level of intensity I typically reserve for threat assessment.
She is not Bliss.
Her hair is the wrong color. Her posture is different. She is three inches taller and wearing sweatpants that say "SUNDAY FUNDAY" across the backside in glittering letters.
She is absolutely not Bliss.
But for one disorienting, painful second, I think she is, and the relief that floods my system is so overwhelming I actually take a step forward before my brain catches up and reminds me that Bliss is gone and I am the one who made sure of it.
The woman picks the chocolate chip flavor, puts the other pint back, and walks away without noticing me.
I stand there, gripping the cart handle, my knuckles going pale gray.
