leg muscles are bulging from the strain of forcing himself to pedal faster
urgency unequivocally physical, a bowel movement overdue); he coasts, makes a sharp
turn (anus starting to quiver, aching to contract); one more stretch
ahead; he streaks across the parking lot, half dismounts on approach,
skids to a halt, sets his kickstand (poorly; the bicycle topples in his
wake), fumbles for his house key, grabs the mail en route, leaves the door
ajar, and sprints for the toilet.
Salvation! An IMMENSE evacuation ushers in relief... eyes clenched closed reopen, refocus, fall upon a letter—written evidently (her name on the envelope) by Michelle. He checks the postmark: local... next the date: stamped Monday. Did they lie, then? Angel, Cindy, Chris, Leanne, Molly each confirmed that Michelle had left abruptly, gave no forwarding address. "Good riddance," had been Chris's sentiment, "bitch was too damn big for her itty-bitty britches." Molly's muttered attitude was much the same. While Cindy ventured a less disdainful opinion: "She always said she'd scram when she found Mister Right. Some of us believed Mister Right was you." Meaning Morgan, whose courtship, though short-lived, had been observed.
But if Michelle had plans to leave, she had not told him.
Morgan sets aside the letter, wipes himself, stands up, adjusts his clothes, then flushes the commode. Pregnant? She could scarcely know so soon. Retrieving the letter, he reads it one more time... then hides it.
"Morgan?" Gillian enters the bedroom with trepidation... looks toward the bathroom. "There you are. You scared me. Thought we might've been burgled; did you leave the door open?"
He motions toward the pot.
"Well, better move your bike; I nearly ran it over."
She retreats. Morgan feels a poke; the letter jabs his groin. He takes it out of his underwear, folds it three times neatly, then tucks it into his blue-jeans' left hip pocket.