I used to love filling in those sections. Firstly, because it meant I had a real job and wasn’t self-employed anymore. Secondly, there was a certain pride to be able to put down Billy’s name, knowing he would jump at any phone call if there was, in fact, an emergency and also knowing, God forbid I should’ve gotten killed, he would be financially secure.
But in the last week of completing a seemingly endless amount of these fucking forms, the question now just mocks me, it rubs it in and it’s all I can do to not run screaming from my office saying, “No one! Don’t call anyone in an emergency and leave any insurance money to your favorite charity because I don’t give a shit!”
I arrived home late last night and Bob was quivering from being alone for so long. He buried his face in my arms and whined/talked his language that Billy and I had begun to understand. I hugged him, ordered a pizza and went about assembling a TV stand I had ordered. Halfway through, in a fit of frustration and sorrow, I broke down and garishly sobbed. I grabbed Bob and held him until I soaked the top of his ear. The pain was unquenchable and after I was choking up dry tears, I stopped and left the unfinished TV stand where it was, its loose screws peppering the carpet and its incomprehensible pressed wood plates taking center stage.
“Come on, Bob, let’s go to bed,” I said and he padded behind me, jumping up on his side of the bed. I wrote my letter to Billy and pleaded for him to come back. I wrote him of how much fun we’d be having, exploring this city, and my eyes found more water. I kissed his picture and turned to spoon Bob as I went to sleep with an episode of The X-Files playing in the background.