Olive Juice

Phillip had.

That was the last time, right?

Yeah. Except for the bow tie.

The chair scraped along the floor as he stands up quickly. His mouth was salivating in that way it does before he’s about to be sick—and God, didn’t he remember that feeling from year three—because Phillip hadn’t been there to tie his damn tie, why the hell had he even worn it to begin with?

“David—”

“Just have to use the restroom.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll be right back.”

He felt Phillip’s eyes on his back as he strode away. He didn’t look back.

The bathroom was empty and as lowly lit as the restaurant. The floor was tiled, the sinks clear glass bowls on concrete blocks. There were mints and complimentary mouthwash on a cart near the far wall, and if this was going to go like he thought it was, then he’d probably need them.

He was in one of the stalls, the door firmly latched behind him when his mouth felt flooded, and the toilet seat was up. He was on his knees and gagging, stomach twisting furiously, and yeah, this was what it’d been like for most of 2014, that acidic burn in his mouth, gut filled with booze, guilt just about crushing him. He’d vomit, and it’d come out in a brown mess, and he’d think to himself, Never again, never again, I’m not going to do this ever again, she would be so mad if she could see me, but then he’d finish, and the day would go on, and it would get harder and harder, and five o’clock would hit. Five o’clock would hit (when it became acceptable to drink, of course), and he’d want to be numb. He’d go on to the website that had been made for Alice, a clumsy thing with only one page, saying that on March 22nd, 2012, Alice had disappeared near the Foggy Bottom–GWU Metro stop, the only sign that she’d ever existed had been her purse on the ground, wallet and cell phone still inside. God knows how long it’d been sitting there. Had it been from that morning? Or had it been from later in the day? He might not have known anything was wrong if that Good Samaritan hadn’t seen the purse lying partially hidden in some small bushes next to the Whole Foods.

He’d been just a kid coming from George Washington University, backpack slung over his shoulder. He’d seen the purse and would tell David later he thought it was weird that it was lying there like it was and hadn’t yet been taken by a homeless person. His name was Maury “but everyone calls me Digger,” and he’d picked up the purse, looking around to see if anyone was coming for it.

Nothing.

He’d felt guilty about looking through it, remembering when he’d been little and had snuck some money from his mom’s purse. He’d been found out and had gotten into trouble for that, and it’d always stuck with him. That disappointed look on her face. So he’d felt wrong about it, but there was just something strange that this purse had been where it was.

He’d found the wallet. A few singles inside. A driver’s license. Credit cards. There was a bag of those Ricola Lemon Mint drops, leftover from a sore throat a couple of weeks before. Lipstick. Gum. A hair tie. A pen. Rubber bands. A Kindle. A smartphone that wasn’t password protected. He’d pulled up the last number dialed and had called it.

And at 3:37 on Thursday, March 22, 2016, David’s cell phone rang.

“Hey, what are you up to?” he’d said. “On your way home? I’ll see what I can scrounge up for dinner if you—”

“Uh, yeah,” a male voice had said, and David was confused. He’d looked at his phone, and yeah, it’d said ALICE was calling him, that ALICE should be on the other end of the line. “Sorry. Is this—”

“This is David. Who are you? Why do you have my—”

“Look, mister. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like this, okay? I’m just walking to the stop, okay? And I seen this purse, okay? It’s on the ground. And I’m thinking, wow, that’s not cool, because it looks expensive, okay? So I pick it up and there’s a wallet inside, and it’s weird, because it’s all still there, okay? And there’s this cell phone, and now I’m calling you. You know? This is Alice’s stuff. Nothing was stolen, okay? I didn’t take anything. I’m just trying to do the right thing here. I felt bad about going in the purse, okay? I’m not looking for any reward that—”

“You found it?” David had said, already feeling that low twinge of dread at the base of his spine. “What do you mean you found it?”

“It’s like I said, okay? It was just on the ground. Near some bushes. Man, I don’t know. It just felt weird, okay? Like, if someone stole it, then why didn’t they take the cards, man? You know? The phone too.”

And that had been the thing, right? The big thing. Because if someone had stolen the purse, if the motive had been robbery, then why hadn’t any of it been taken?

How had it gotten there?

There’d been a punched Metro card, timestamped for earlier that morning, so they knew she’d at least gotten off at the stop.

But from there?

Had she been just leaving the Metro or coming back?

No cameras had picked her up.

And no one, no one had remembered seeing anything. Not inside that Whole Foods. Or in the coffee shop where she’d stopped earlier according to the swipe of her debit card. Or on the train. Or anywhere.

And that’d been the thing too, right? How could these people, all of these people who had been around her during that Thursday not seen what had happened?

He’d been so angry at that. Later.

A thin string of bile was attached to his bottom lip as he dry-heaved into the fancy toilet, the tile cold underneath his hands. There was sweat on his forehead. His ears were ringing, and it was a lot. It was so much to take in, and he gagged again, but nothing came out. The string of bile broke and fell into the water. He spat once, twice, getting rid of the excess saliva. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, again and again and again, and until his vision cleared and his stomach settled.