Debi Dumas

It's the perfect morning scramble. Not eggs with a side of wheat toast, but a covert operation, enacted to retrieve concrete evidence through quick concise movements. The sudden whoosh of shower water interrupted by droplets hitting skin indicates an approximate five minute window of opportunity.
Every girl rifles, the worst perpetrator of all being the one who denies it. I'm a light rifler, i.e. I usually stay close to the surface. No deep drawer dives, no message machine decoding. Never a journal defiling. Simple glove box frisks. A cell phone scroll down. A pants pocket dip. A silent interrogation of a framed photo with his arm around some smiling blonde. Basic stuff.
His brown leather wallet is thrown carelessly onto his nightstand, half open, taunting my investigating fingers to probe through its many cavities. Three hundred and sixty-five dollar receipt for a DVD player from Good Guys. Friday after five his laundry will be ready. Amex, Discover, and Citibank all shine golden, their untarnished credit within limits, at least in their last billing cycle. License with a thinner version of him. AH. Flipped stomach. Crumpled cocktail napkin, tucked away behind business cards. That fucker. Ann Rand, wanton from the Cheesecake Factory, too slippery to even give him a number. That bitch. Wait. My birthday request over dinner that night. The complete collection of Ayn Rand. He's the worst speller. Continuing. Two more punches away from a free iceblended at the Coffee Bean, the drink we share after our Wednesday runs. One hundred and thirty-three dollars, neatly organized, all faces forward. Picture of his nephew with his head in a daisy, dated February 2001, Max 1 year old. Lunch receipt from Houstons, two martinis and a caesar salad. Doubtful a date would have shared a salad, not enough alcohol for a drunken roll in the hay.
Water stops. "Honey, could you grab me a towel?" Absolutely. I hadn't considered the linen closet.