But I waited and waited.
The guests left. The restaurant closed.
Still, he never returned.
Groggy, I hailed a cab home.
When I entered, William wasn’t back yet. His Spanish notes were scattered across the floor.
I was too irritable from the alcohol to tidy them. Instead, I kicked them aside.
Dirty shoe prints smudged the papers.
When William finally came home and saw the mess, he snapped:
“Anna Collins, what are you doing? Do you have any idea how important these are to me?”
Still tipsy, I burst into tears.
“William, why are you yelling at me? You didn’t put them away yourself! I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Seeing my tears, his tone softened.
“I… Just don’t touch my things again.”
I collapsed into sleep on the floor.
When I woke, William had already left. His weekends were always busier than weekdays.
The notes had been carefully flattened and laid back out on the desk.
Curiosity gnawed at me.
What was so important about them?
I pulled out my phone’s translation app and scanned one page.
His handwriting was messy; the translation came out fragmented.
But a few words stood out: “pregnant women,” “deformity,” “drug effects,” “IQ.”
I scanned more pages, though most of the terms were too technical.