Is There Still Sex in the City?

Another day went by. Marilyn texted Sassy that her MNB was going to help her figure out her insurance and not to worry after all.

We were worried. But unlike in the past when she’d had difficult days, this time Marilyn wasn’t alone in her house. She was staying with her MNB.

I knew this for a fact because her car was parked at his place. I passed by every day on my way to the beach, the same beach where Marilyn was hoping to get married.

That Saturday, when I saw her car, I thought about stopping in. But then I didn’t want to bother her. It would be rude to go barging in on her when she was at her boyfriend’s house.

Late Sunday afternoon, when I passed the house again, I noticed that Marilyn’s car wasn’t there. I assumed this meant the renters had vacated and Marilyn had gone back to her place.

I called her, but it went to voice mail.

When I went to bed, I tried her again. Her mailbox was full. This was strange. Marilyn always checked her messages. I decided to stop by her house the next morning.

I never got there. I was prevented by a strange set of circumstances that I still can’t explain to this day.

I woke late and decided to run some errands in town and then because it was a beautiful day to bike over to Marilyn’s house.

I wrote out some checks for bills, placed stamps on the envelopes, and stowed them in the zippered bike pouch along with my wallet and cell phone.

My first stop was the bank. I plucked my wallet out of the bike pouch, went into the bank, and stuck my card in the ATM.

Immediately there was a problem.

“Transaction denied.”

I felt a sense of foreboding.

“What the hell?” I stomped over to a teller. “There’s something wrong with my card.”

A sigh. “It’s probably the machine.”

It wasn’t. We tried all the machines and then the people in the bank tried their computers and still couldn’t figure out what was wrong, so they did the transactions by hand.

I left the bank not at all reassured. On my way out, a young man called my name. “Hey, Candace. How are you?”

“Fine?” I said, flustered. Who was this guy and how did he know me?

“I recognized your bike outside.”

Ah, right, the guy from the bike shop. “It’s a beautiful day for a ride,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I replied.

My mood lifted. I reminded mys

elf that the bank incident was but one small glitch in what would undoubtedly be a good day. I’d head to the post office next, then over to Marilyn’s.

But as I approached my bike, I noticed that something else was wrong. The bike pouch was unzipped.

I hadn’t left it like that, had I? If I had, that would be unusual. But perhaps I hadn’t been paying attention. I opened the flap and gasped.

It was empty—or at least the bills were gone. My cell phone was still there.

Had I been robbed? If so, why hadn’t they taken my cell phone?

I approached a young traffic cop, ruddy faced and barely an adult, who was standing in the crosswalk.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Did you see anyone lingering around that orange bike over there?”