This vignette has been settled firmly in the back of my mind for several months, but I didn’t have the will to write it. I figured I should take some time to set it down so I could stop thinking about it.
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He flipped backwards through the photo album in his lap, mind elsewhere. Paper pages mounted with pictures couldn’t hold his thoughts, which flickered off and away to some distant where. A nervous habit, he triggered the screen on his phone. Three minutes had elapsed since the last time, and he had not missed any communications. His hands stopped at the first page of the album, the first picture of her, sitting at a street side cafe, smoking a cigarette. He’d taken it a year ago, before he knew her name.
He rose slowly, his diaphragm opened and oxygen flooded his lungs, doing nothing to alleviate the pain in his chest. The album fell from his hands to the floor and he walked away from it. He spent some time walking through his apartment, back held straight, eyes roaming over objects which he couldn’t hold in his mind. He drew books down from high shelves and grasped them firmly, like talismans against the emptiness growing in him, but when he tried to read them they were incomprehensible.
He found himself at the sink, a glass of water in his hands, with no desire to drink it. Moments or hours later he rose from the bathroom floor, legs shaking, throat raw. He heard her coming with the first light. In the mirror he saw himself, a horror. He splashed water on his face, raked his fingers through his hair. Time dilated and he heard her footsteps in the kitchen, his hand surrounded the cold brushed metal of the doorknob, it siphoned his heat, warming. He twisted, ever so slowly, and in the eternity between two heartbeats the latch disengaged and the door swung towards him.
There were books and cushions everywhere, a glass of water lay on its side, liquid pooled on the glossy concrete floor, creating endless reflections. He stepped over this. If she heard his approach she made no indication. The counters were covered with plates and bowls, pots and pans. She was efficiently emptying each cabinet until finally, she found what she was looking for. She lifted out a small metal pail, unlocked it, and placed its contents in the pockets of her duster. Quick movements, sharp and precise. Not delicate, but beautiful in their perfection, she wasted no energy, she was not superfluous. She had always been this way, in speech and movement, thought and emotion. This characterized her.
He swallowed and cleared his throat, then winced. His hands felt alien, the appendages of some other man, grafted onto his arms but not entirely under his control. He slid them into his pockets as she turned toward him.
“You’re going.” he said, surprised, as always by her simple beauty. She said nothing, and he knew this was the only answer he’d get. She didn’t waste words.
“You don’t have to do that. You can stay.” his voice trailed off, hopelessness coiling around him.
“I told you I would leave.” she said, her face perfectly impassive. A fact, devoid of emotion. She had made that statement. He remembered it. They’d just made love, he was talking about their future, whispering his dreams to the dark room, and she turned to him…he closed his eyes.
“Yes” he said, his voice faltering, “but I love you. I’m in love with you.”
Eyes opening he found her back, her shoulders, and followed the line of her coat down to her calves. Her heels clacked on the concrete with each step she took towards the door. Pain shot through his body and he realized he was on his knees.
“Please.” he said, “Please. Don’t leave me like this.”
She stopped, turned slowly and looked at him. He felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and as she approached he tried to wipe his eyes. Her hand went to the back of his head and she pulled his face into her. He held on, sobbing quietly into her stomach.
She brushed her fingers through his hair, then slid six inches of cold steel past his ribs, into his right ventricle.
He gasped, his eyes suddenly level with her pumps, and watched as his life poured out over the concrete floor. She stepped away from the advancing pool of blood and his vision flickered. A photograph of her sitting at a street side cafe smoking, blossomed in his mind, and was gone.
She walked to the door, resting her hand on the knob. She opened it slowly, then stopped and turned.
“I love you.” she said to the empty room.
Very cold indeed.