I Signed a Marriage Contract, Not a Love Triangle

Some people woke up to birds.

Some people woke up to sunshine.

Irene Potter woke up to three alarms.

The first screamed at 4:10 a.m.

The second joined in at 4:25 a.m.

The third, scheduled for 4:40 a.m. and she finally rolled onto her stomach, found her phone under the pillow, and silenced that it.

Across the room, Mr. Mustard stared at her through his tank.

“How I envy you. You sleep whenever you want.”

Mr. Mustard slowly paddled toward the side of the tank.

Irene sat up and immediately regretted it. Four hours of sleep sat behind her eyes like extra weight.

She checked the time. It was 5:00 a.m.

Technically, she was ahead.

She got dressed in the dark because the bulb near her closet had burned out two days ago, and replacing it was currently below groceries, laundry detergent, and the minimum payment on her credit card.

Her coffee-shop uniform was clean enough. Black pants. Plain shirt. Hair pulled up because there was no reason to spend time making it look nice when she would smell like coffee before sunrise anyway.

Before leaving, Irene checked Mr. Mustard’s water and dropped his breakfast into the tank.

“You have a good day.”

He went directly for the food.

“At least one of us.”

Her apartment door stuck when she pulled it shut. Irene had to lift it slightly before the lock caught.

The landlord had promised to fix that.

He had also promised to fix the bathroom fan.

Irene had stopped putting emotional weight behind landlord promises sometime around age twenty-one.

By five-twenty, she was behind the counter at the coffee shop.

The morning crowd started before six and never really stopped. Commuters wanted caffeine immediately, office workers wanted complicated drinks while pretending they were simple, and one man spent four full minutes explaining that his cappuccino had too much foam.

Irene remade it.

He looked into the cup.

“This is better.”

“Great.”

She smiled because smiling paid better than honesty.

By nine, her feet hurt.

By eleven, she had eaten half a muffin while standing beside the sink.

At twelve-fifteen, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She checked it during her break.

Belle: Can you send me 300?

Irene stared at the message.

No hello.

No how are you.

Just three hundred dollars.

She typed back.

For what?

The reply came almost immediately.

School stuff

Irene waited.

Nothing from Belle, so she typed again.

What school stuff?

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared then appeared again.

We have this thing coming up and everybody’s paying already

Irene sighed because that cleared up absolutely nothing.

She checked her banking app.

Rent was due in five days.

Seven hundred forty dollars.

Her convenience-store paycheck would cover part of it. The coffee-shop deposit would cover the rest if she didn’t touch too much before then.

The cleaning job she had Saturday would go toward groceries and the rehab balance.

Three hundred dollars was obviously more than she could spare.

She texted:

I can send 150. That’s it.

Belle called immediately.

Irene closed her eyes before answering.

“Hi.”

“Irene, why only one-fifty?”

“Because that’s what I have.”

“But I need three. You always say you’ll help with school.”

“I am helping.”

“With half.”

Irene leaned against the wall outside the staff room.

“Belle, I can’t send money I don’t have.”

“But you get paid today.”

“I also pay rent.”

A pause from Belle before she argued further. “Mom said you could probably figure it out.”

Irene rubbed her forehead.

“I’ll send one-fifty.”

“But—”

“That’s what I can do.”

Belle went quiet in the way she always did when she wanted Irene to feel bad without actually saying anything.

And it worked. It usually did.

“Fine,” Belle said.

“I’ll send it now.”

“Okay.”

The call ended, but no Thank you.

Irene transferred the money anyway. Immediately, her account balance dropped.

She looked at the number for a moment, locked her phone, and went back to work.

There wasn’t much point getting angry. Anger did not put the money back.

At two, Irene clocked out.

She had three hours before the convenience-store shift.

A normal person might have gone home, but Irene went to the laundromat because Saturday’s cleaning job meant she wouldn’t have time then.

By four-thirty, she had clean uniforms folded into her bag and enough time to buy a sandwich before heading to her second job.

She ate half of it on the bus.

The rest stayed wrapped in her bag until almost ten that night.

The convenience store was quieter than the café but somehow more tiring. At least coffee customers usually knew why they had entered the building.

Convenience-store customers wandered. They stood in front of refrigerators for five minutes debating soda. They bought cigarettes and argued about prices Irene did not set. They came to the register with lottery tickets and asked her which numbers looked lucky.

At eleven-forty, a man put two instant noodle cups, a lighter, and a pack of gum on the counter.

“You look tired,” he said.

Irene scanned the noodles.

“Thank you.”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that… bad… like bad tired.”

“That’s okay.”

She scanned the gum. “I am tired.”

At least humans occasionally stumbled into the truth.

Her shift ended just after midnight, and the bus ride home took thirty-five minutes.

Irene spent most of it with her forehead against the window, thinking about the Saturday cleaning job and whether there was enough laundry detergent left for next week.

This was what her life had become. She had an apartment. Jobs. Food most days. Belle was still in school. Amanda was still in rehab, at least for now.

There were people doing worse. It was true, but Irene simply would have liked one month where nothing cost more than expected.

When she finally reached her building, she climbed the stairs slowly.

On the second floor, one hallway light was out again.

She unlocked her apartment and stepped inside.

“Mr. Mustard, I’m home.”

Silence.

Irene kicked off her shoes and walked toward the tank.

Mr. Mustard lifted his head from the water.

“Belle needed money again today.”

He blinked.

“I gave her half.”

Another blink.

“I know. I can’t say no, and I’m an idiot.”

Irene opened the refrigerator and took out the second half of her sandwich. Mr. Mustard watched her eat it cold.

“You’re very judgmental for someone who lives rent-free.”

She was halfway through when something white near the front door caught her attention.

Irene stopped chewing.

An envelope lay on the floor just inside the apartment.

She frowned as she had not noticed it when she came in.

There was no stamp. No return address. And her name was written across the front.

IRENE POTTER

Not handwritten, but printed.

Irene picked it up.

The paper was thick. Expensive, probably.

Nobody who actually knew her used stationery that felt expensive.

She checked the hallway through the peephole. It was empty. Then she looked back at the envelope.

Mr. Mustard was still watching from across the room.

“I got mail,” Irene said, holding the envelope up to Mr. Mustard. “Actual mail. Who still sends letters in this day and age?”

She turned it over. There was no logo and no company name. 

There was nothing except her name.

“Oookay. This is not creepy at all.”