By David Billingsley

“Cheer up, it’s Monday!”

I placed the Styrofoam container on the receptionist’s desk at Roy, Sanders, and Wieg, the prestigious law firm of my wife’s employ. Lunch for my dearest. Every Monday. The cute receptionist, Jennifer, stared back at me like I was part of the district attorney’s staff.

“Mr. Johannsen,” she said in a voice like she was speaking to a child, “your wife…” She paused and glanced behind her like she needed help.

“Is there a problem?”

“Your wife hasn’t worked here for three weeks.”

I shook my head. Wasn’t putting up with this nonsense. “Hand this to Silvia. Just like every Monday for the last thirty-three years. Lunch courtesy of my own two hands.”

My wife, Silvia, hated…no wait, she detested Mondays. She’d start on Friday afternoon, before the weekend’s first sunset had even commenced, complaining about the hell she would have to endure back at work on Monday.

I placed my hands on the secretary’s desk, palms down. She leaned back, put her hands to her chest as if I were some kind of lunatic.

“Let me get Glenda,” she said. She poked a long fingernail on her phone and whispered into her headset. “He’s here. Yes, again.”

Glenda Sanders, managing partner and the bane of my wife’s existence, but the key to our family cash flow, rolled into the reception area. She gave me one of those fake smiles. You know the kind.

“Frank, please, come back into my office,” she said as she held the glass door open.

“No, I don’t need to see Silvia. Just have her lunch here.”

“Please, Frank.”

The woman’s fake smile turned down as if she’d stuck a sour ball in her mouth.

In the safe confines of Glenda’s office, I stared through the numerous glass walls, wondering why no one had any privacy. A house of mirrors, but with see-through glass. Past one of the associate’s offices, I could see Silvia’s desk. Nothing on it. Her computer missing. No phone either.

Glenda leaned back on her glass desk and gave me a nod. “Can I call someone?”

“For what? And what’s with Silvia’s desk? You move her?”

“You were here last week and the week before,” Glenda said.

“Every week for thirty-three years,” I said proudly. Why was Glenda pestering me with this?

“Silvia wasn’t here last week, Frank. Nor the week prior. You know that. And you’ve only been bringing lunch for three weeks.”

I shook my head and headed for the office door. No reason to argue with this woman any longer. Silvia would get her lunch, she’d smile, her afternoon would be better, and we would reunite at home tonight. I would turn a lousy Monday into something better.

I headed for the exit, but found myself in a conference room full of legal-types. They all stopped and glared at me. Or maybe they were throwing pity my way. They could see I was lost. I escaped into a long hall of glass offices. Then I was back in an empty conference room. The house of mirrors had trapped me, and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was staring.

I sat on a chair in someone’s office; there was no one at the desk. I glanced around for Silvia. Then I put my head in my hands. Some awful memory was chasing me.

“No!” I shouted.

Suddenly, my daughter, Jasmine, was standing at the doorway. Her eyes were wet. She came and took my hand and led me to safety.

She drove me to Elkins Glen, the cemetery where I own matching sites for our eternal resting place.  Wasn’t sure why we went there. Maybe to check on the place. “The ground is messed up over Silvia’s grave,” I said. “Can’t they fix that?”

“Dad, you know mom is here.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.

“She’s gone. You know that.”

Poor Jasmine’s eyes were streaming. Did I know that? Couldn’t be. Life would be inconceivable without Silvia, my soulmate for fifty-two years. She would be home tonight.

“Do you think they gave her the lunch I made?” I asked. Jasmine tried to smile. She said, “I hope so.”