Day 2: December 19^th, 2012

7 PM

The odd duality associated with adulthood in your twenties occurred to Sinclair as he exited the plane in San Francisco.  Though fully an adult in legal terms, Sinclair speculated, in societal terms, he was nothing more than a juvenile delinquent.  He felt eyes lingering across him as he lumbered through the airport.  He had to admit, at times, he looked a bit rogue, but he and Michelle had both based very little on appearances.

His piercings and beard were often the chagrin of his mother. But what could he do? He was a free spirit.  Just outside the airport, Sinclair hailed a cab.  Scooting in, he leaned his head back and told the driver the address.

The cab jostled over the steep hills.  For the fist time in his life, Sinclair thought he might get carsick as the cab rattled up and down.  He quickly decided that rest was futile with his head constantly rolling from side to side.

The cab slowed to the curb, and Sinclair spotted the quaint townhouse.  “Thanks,” Sinclair called into the cab after he paid and left the tip.

“She’s going to die,” he whispered to himself, a pleased grin splitting his face.  As he approached the house, he was swept by the odd sensation that the house was too still.  In fact, no lights were on save the entrance hall.

Sinclair knocked on the door.  He waited.

Trying not to jump to conclusions, he knocked again.  And waited.  It was obvious no one was home.  Sinclair crumbled to the stoop.  He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, contemplating.  He would just wait for a while, hoping they were at a late dinner.

His next step?  He didn’t know.

A light drizzle cascaded from the sky, glistening on the street.  The night was cool but far from cold.  Sinclair scooted closer to the door and leaned his back against it.  At least, he thought, the overhang is keeping me dry.

If he had to, he could hail a cab and get a hotel room.  Great, he thought.  So far, his plan was not turning out at all like he had hoped.  “I should’ve called,” he mumbled.  A half-hour passed before Sinclair mustered the resolve to hail a cab and go get a late dinner.

He ate in a small diner, quaint and welcoming.  He had a cold sandwich and soup—the special for the day.  After he ate, he returned back to Michelle’s, and seeing that no one was home. Sinclair pulled out his phone and texted her:

Surprise! I’m at your place. Where are you?

His phone vibrated a moment later.

Oh, no! We’re skiing for the weekend. Join us?

Sinclair sighed. Where?

Sinclair walked the street, wondering where to stay and how to get there. He walked toward a main street to hail a cab and find a hotel for the night. He Googled Lake Tahoe on his phone and saw it was almost a four hour drive. But first he’d have to rent a car, which he hadn’t budgeted for. In addition to the hotel.

Later, flopping on the bed of his room, Sinclair let out an elongated sigh.  Just before midnight of the nineteenth, Sinclair fell asleep, thinking he’d be spending the end of the world alone.

Continued next week…