Love in the moonlight

I looked around at the mound of documents and hoped (for the dozenth time today) that I could flee to the Bahamas. I grinned as I recalled my lunchtime phone talk with my closest buddy earlier in the day. I'd tell him if I went missing that afternoon to start searching on the white sand beaches of Nassau since I was sick to death of the audit at work and anxious about the full day of meetings I had booked for tomorrow. He'd laughed and reminded me that I had a week of vacation coming up as soon as the auditors left.

I would have told him I loved him if I had known that was the final time I would ever see him. Oh, not anymore, not for a long time. But Samuel Nash was the most influential person in my life. He'd been my boyfriend for several years. When that didn't work, what bothered us the most was the prospect of losing our close relationship. Samuel and I made a pact that no matter how tough or distressing the issue was, we would work through it together. He'd been my best buddy since then.

I began rummaging through the heaps of material on my coffee table, wishing I could just walk away from it all. I worked at a cement firm as an accountant and financial analyst. I'd been there for approximately six years, and it felt like the longer I stayed, the more bullshit I had to deal with. I'd been assigned to deal with a bunch of sales tax auditors who were making my life a living hell.

Sales tax auditors only came out once every three years, rather than once a year. I'd heard that some businesses never had to deal with them at all. That, I attribute to heresy and wild conjecture. I'd been handed a list of invoices that the auditors required copies of, and most of them were nearly three years old. All except two had been located. I collapsed on the couch and debated with myself after concluding that the missing bills were not lying in the stack I'd previously sorted twice.

I had a solid notion of where those bills may be kept, but it entailed returning to the office. I was largely prepared for tomorrow's meeting with the executives to finalize the budget specifics. Perhaps I could look for the bills in the morning?

No.

If I was correct, those bills were buried in the basement file room, and there was no way I was going to dig through that muck without looking like something the Swamp Thing vomited up on New Year's Eve. I groaned and dragged myself off the couch. I needed to change my clothing before poking about in the basement at work, which I dubbed the Basement of Horror. I returned to my room and changed into an old, tattered pair of pants that had seen better days. The t-shirt I was wearing had a stain on my left breast from spilling red sangria a few months before, so it'd suffice. I stuffed my feet into my old shoes, grabbed my keys, and walked out to my vehicle.

The apartment building was peaceful. It was a little community with largely senior residents, including me. I'm not that ancient, but I turned forty-three earlier this year, so I fit right in around here. On the top level of my three-story building, I had a spacious two-bedroom flat. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but it was constructed in the 1970s and the apartments were almost soundproof. My neighbors were kind enough, but we largely avoided each other.