A Visitor

Harry sets down the phone sadly, the dial tone still ringing in his ears. "Bye," he murmurs, and then takes a deep, calming breath. With the phone returned to its cradle, he feels better. He surveys the apartment, the rows of neat things, the life he's made, created from chaos and regulated into an every-day sort of order. He runs a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to his couch. Though it's still early on Sunday, barely past one, he feels exhausted, drained, and quickly sinks into a much-needed rest.
He awakes to a thud. His eyes opening quickly, he sits bolt upright, and gasps. The room is in complete disarray. Not only have things been tossed haphazardly everywhere, but furniture has been moved, jostled out of their places and shifted, even the heaviest of items. The table before the couch is now propped against the wall, and in fact the only thing on the rug before him is the phone, its receiver still in the cradle.
Harry stands quickly and goes to the door. He tries the bolt, and finds it secure. A quick survey tells him that the windows are all locked from the inside, though someone would have a hard time getting to one of them even if they weren't. He stands in the middle of the room, and his gaze once again falls to the telephone. He reaches to pick it up, and it rings just as his hand closes on it. He drops it again out of sheer terror, and then answers it, curiousity getting the better of him.
"Harry?"
"Dean."
"Look... I didn't mean that. I'm sorry I hung up. I'm not really sure what just happened, but I feel so strange, as if someone told me to call you. Is there something.... I don't know. Maybe this was a bad idea."
Harry surveys the room again, and then replies, "No, nothing's wrong. I'm so glad you called back, though."

Barnaby

Harry tucks the last photograph in the cardboard box, and then lifts the surprisingly light box into his arms. "Mrs. Ryan?" he calls, "I'm just gonna run this back to the older man who left it here like I told you." She peers up at him, her eyes a little glazed.
"Sure, dear," she replies, and then looks off into the distance again.
He steps out into the daylight, blinking at first, and checks the little hand-drawn map in his pocket. It's not far at all, he thinks. This won't take long at all.
He quickly walks the block and a half to the address on the map, and then checks it again when he stands before it. The decrepit old lot just doesn't seem to him like the kind of place someone would live, and the ramshackle old house seems to be in such disrepair that no one could live there.
He starts, unsure, towards the house, and stops short when he sees the old man on the front porch. He stands slightly stooped over, a broom in his hand. He stares at Harry wordlessly.
"I'm, uh, just returning some of your belongings. They're all in there. I hope you don't mind that I went through them." He takes another step towards the house, the porch, the man. Adversely, the old man seems to shrink back from him without moving a muscle. Harry stops short. "I guess, uh, I guess I'll leave them here. Ah, if you have questions," he stammers quickly, unsure of what he is even saying, "about what we took, I mean, and what we left... I suppose you know where the shop is."
The old man stares back, still silent.
"Uh," manages Harry again, and then he spins on his heel and leaves the lot, feeling eyes on his back all the way.

One Red Shoe

Harry pours himself a mug of hot, black coffee. He sighs, sips his steaming coffee, and readjusts the mauve-colored robe which hangs over his t-shirt and pajama pants. He gazes around his trashed apartment, at the garbage on the counters, the empty bottles in the sink, and the general disarray of his belongings. Andy lays sprawled on his couch, her mouth open, snoring gently. Harry sighs again, and crosses the room to wake her. “Andy, you should wake up now. Andy. Andy?” he calls, changing the mug to his other hand. As the strong aroma of coffee crosses Andy’s nostrils, her bloodshot eyes open. “Harry,” she croaks. “That was a fun night out.”
She sits up, and takes the mug from Harry’s hand. “Hey-” he starts to complain, but is interrupted by Andy’s loud yawn.
“Have you got an extra razor?” she asks. She runs a hand over her stubble-covered jaw, and then her delicately painted fingers go to her cheek. “A girl should never be seen in the morning without her makeup on.”
“You can use mine,” Harry says. “Listen, what was the name of that girl we met last night?”
“The girl-girl or the boy-girl?” Andy giggles. Traces of thick eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, and she has lost one of her set of famously long fake eyelashes at some point.
“The girl-girl,” Harry replies.
“I’m not sure. Denise, maybe?”
‘That’s right. Denise.”
Andy looks at him over the rim of the mug. “Hmm. Well, I’m going to get in the shower.”
“Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.” Harry stands and crosses back to the kitchen. He cleans up a little, filling a garbage bag, and then goes to put it outside in the hallway.
The door to the apartment across the hall opens as he sets the bag down next to the garbage chute. A woman stands there, her gaze sleep-filled. She brightens upon seeing him, and he notices the black smudges on the ends of her fingers. “Hello,” she smiles. “You wouldn’t happen to be the owner of a pair of red Ferragamo pumps, size…” she leans back inside her apartment, “twelve? I found it in the hall just outside the elevator.”
He blinks, taken aback. “Yes, actually. I mean, no, it’s not mine, but my friend was wearing a pair when we went out last night.”
“Twelves are hard to find in designer shoes,” she informs him, and he notices a black smudge under one eye, too.
“Yes. Andy—my friend—has a very hard time. I think she had them custom-made.”
She hands him a shoe, which he notices is, indeed, Andy’s pump, and smiles. “You both looked lovely when you came in last night. I especially liked your wig.”
“You saw us?” He cradles the shoe.
“Well, I have a show coming up soon. I don’t sleep much. It’s coming together, though. I mean, I wasn’t staring out the peephole in my door. I’m not a stalker or anything,” she adds hurriedly.
“Of course not,” Harry smiles. He feels himself starting to warm to her. “Harry,” he offers his hand to her.
“Aretha,” she smiles back, and shakes his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Well, I’ll be going,” she says, and smiles again as she closes the door.
Harry tucks the shoe into the pocket of his robe, and tips the garbage down the chute, and starts humming an old tune.