Cori Lynn Arnold
Copyright 2012 Cori Lynn Arnold
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The weight of several plastic grocery bags cut into Peter's hands as he makes it to the last landing of his third floor walk-up apartment. The bags are heavy, but he just manages to hold all the bags in one hand and digs through his pocket searching for the right set of keys. As with every time he sorts through his keys, he thinks about his imminent unemployment with a strange mix of happiness and trepidation. He thinks to himself, I better get a haircut before my interview on Thursday. He starts humming along to a song he hasn't heard in a long time.
Peter backs into his apartment pushing against the door, still wrestling with the bags of groceries. As the door shuts, he notices that the song isn't coming from a neighbor, but his own apartment. His eyes start searching the room, he doesn't remember leaving his radio on. Peter spots the mp3 player sitting on his desk and as he makes a step toward the desk, trips and lands face first onto a bag of potato chips set loose from his fall. “What the hell?” Peter asks, righting himself and throwing his parka onto his bed. He stares down at the hockey bag on the floor, listening to the song playing the background.