Anytime Jack’s phone buzzes during Black Friday, the same heart-stopping feeling he got from that first call of Marshall’s repeats itself again. Though he can’t hear Marshall’s voice, he remembers the sudden sonorous laugh and his careful whisper in his ear like a poem or a song. When Jack gets his phone after another buzz, and sees Marshall’s name again, he feels even luckier than before. Two chances to speak with Marshall? he thinks, somewhat sardonically. Wow, it must be some kind of record. Jack soon hides again at the back of the store, inside one of the washroom stalls. Now there is no old man waiting for him to leave, so he feels as if the room is all his. Even if there are wads of toilet paper all around and random water everywhere.

“I heard there was a fight at the local Wal-Mart,” Marshall texts him. “They had to send out some ambulances and now I’m waiting for the casualties. Tell me, is Target just as violent?”

“Nah,” Jack answers. “Here it’s just has a bunch of middle aged woman who want to fight over socks. Or blenders.” Jack goes on for a while, becoming verbose in a matter of minutes as he writes down the bathroom story and the old man.

“Sounds like he wanted a quickie,” Marshall responds.

“Stop,” Jack texts.

“I’m teasing,” Marshall writes. “You know, you need to start a book of short stories with shit like this. I swear you tell me the best stuff.”

“And you me, sweetheart,” Jack states. “Like those college kids who got vibrators stuck inside of them because they all happen to ‘fall on them’ at the same time. Yeah. Fall on them. Happens a lot with carrots and other items, too, if I remember correctly. People should put warnings about that.”

“Ah, yes, I remember those kids fondly. They are the future,” Marshall types. “I’ll tell you what, then. We’ll collaborate on this book. Half retail hell, and another half the ER stories.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jack states.

“So, jokes asides,” Marshall texts next. “How are you doing? Really now?”

“Good. Good as I can be. Only a couple more hours.”

“And, and?” Marshall teases. Jack feels his face go red even though Marshall isn’t around to see his embarrassment.

“Another month until I see you again,” Jack answers.

“No hours or minutes countdown?”

“I could have that for you in a little bit.”

Marshall is silent for some time before he answers, “Yes, dear. I’m sure you could. An ambulance just got here, though. I have to go.”

Jack stands up in the bathroom, as if he has suddenly been caught. He hears another crash from outside the Target’s alleys and wonders if they’ll need that ambulance, too.

“Okay, take care of yourself, Marsh. I love you.”

Jack hits send and waits on the balls of his feet, though he knows he will not get a response. At least, not until his emergency is over. He sometimes feels as if he has to skip between moments and days to talk to Marshall, whereas before he could just camp out on his couch and wait for him like he used to before. Marshall would always wake Jack up before he went to sleep after a shift or a late study break, always come to see him whenever he got home no matter what time of day that was. Now, Marshall doesn’t even always text when he gets off work. He can’t. So Jack is always left on the other side of a hanging question, an away message on Skype or unavailable sign on the messenger system. Jack has started to accept from his customer service days or going into work with his mom, that he will always be waiting in some way.

Jack checks his watch after washing his hands. Two hours and fifty eight minutes. Okay, he tells himself as he looks in the mirror. You can do this.