The Day the River Stopped Singing

When I learned that Holly Jones had gone to deliver cold medicine to her young assistant, even though she knew I was trapped in the elevator and suffered from claustrophobia, I asked for a divorce.

Holly signed without hesitation. Smiling at her best friend, she said,

"Jim is just throwing a little tantrum. His parents are gone, so there's no way he'd really divorce me. Besides, there's a thirty-day cooling-off period before it's finalized. If he regrets it, I'll graciously forgive him and take him back."

The very next day, she posted a couples' photoshoot with her assistant, captioned: [Capturing your every sexy moment.]

I counted the days.

Calmly, I packed my belongings and made a phone call.

"Uncle, buy me a ticket to Hudson City."

"Jim, it's fantastic that you're coming home after all these years. As your uncle, I can't tell you how happy that makes me."

The middle-aged man's voice lifted with emotion on the other end of the line.

The moment the call ended, Holly Jones swung the door open, and with her entrance, the room filled with an unfamiliar masculine scent, a mix of tobacco and leather.

"Who were you talking to?"

Her question was more of a formality than genuine interest; her gaze was glued to her phone screen, not bothering to look up at me.

I was about to respond when Holly's phone interrupted us with its own ring. A man's voice, dripping with feigned frailty, came through, saying, "Ms. Jones, I owe you for the medicine you brought me. Without your help, my cold would've turned nasty. I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Holly, sensing something off, quickly lowered the volume.

I shut my mouth, bored with the whole charade, thinking, 'We're already heading for a divorce, aren't we?'

In silence, I tidied up a bit and warmed a cup of milk, sticking to my usual routine.

Once Holly wrapped up her call, she settled on the couch, thumbing through the finance section of the newspaper. Out of habit, her hand searched for the coffee I used to make for her. Not finding it, she finally shot me an impatient look.

"Are you still upset that I didn't rescue you from the elevator malfunction incident?

"Charles' cousin, the doctor, said your claustrophobia isn't that serious. Stop being so dramatic.

"And let's not forget: you were the one who wanted a divorce, and I agreed. So why the long face all the time?"

I remembered that night vividly. I was working late, trapped in an elevator when the power was out, my phone battery on its last leg. My claustrophobia surged, and shaking, I called Holly.

Her response? "Can't you sort it out yourself? I'm busy."

Then my phone went dead, and I almost did, too.

I later discovered that her assistant, Charles Shaw, had been on leave; she had granted his request for days. It dawned on me then that she had been out delivering cold medicine to Charles that