Leaves
Memory of that day; sans utility, sans insight.
Motley of leaves flit through blinds.
A man knocks on a bedroom door.
Hey. Hey? Can you please come out here for a sec? We’re done; we got everything. I’m about to go.
She is hiding in their, excuse me, her bedroom. From whom? From him—this man on the other side. She is afraid and shy and hurt but the door creaks open still. Out runs her cat, yes, her cat, with warbling meow. Swift and mischievous. So silent paws pad parallel to white socks on spotless tiles and follow the man.
Heavy, suffering eyes regard him from behind heart-shaped glasses. Her golden, disheveled hair is in the beloved bun. They stand in the half-hollowed out office room: one desk laden with life, the other laid bare. A duo of leaves rattle binary to the far end of the room.
What about your desk?
I thought about it, but it’s… Whatever, you can do whatever you want with it. Sell it, maybe.
His eyes go to the towering light wood of his childhood’s closet, built sturdy by fatherly hands, reassembled by filial hands. To augur joint life. It stays.
Okay.
He takes care not to crush one of the leaves by his feet.
They’d carried her desk together into this apartment and placed it next to his. So were lovers meant to sit. Now both stand within arm’s reach. Her arms remain folded against her chest and his are. Are. Her cat is swirling, flowing between their legs and weaving, weaving the torn. It notices one of the leaves on her chair and jumps on to paw it. Her cat made a habit of jumping into the man’s lap to doze, rest and purr. They’d warmed up to each other, and the woman was lovingly jealous.
I just can’t understand how or why we’re here. I feel like I don’t even know you. Why?
She thought she did and he is silent for the mind presses up against the question and falls away. It will take years to answer. Today his friend and father are downstairs waiting to take him and his remains home. He jarringly embraces her, forgets all, as she speaks on of the calamity.
I can’t recognize this reality. I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I’ll wake up, right? Please?
She will not, but this nightmare she will transcend. His clothes are black. In mourning. Is he thin from the trip or from grief-guilt? She is beautiful. Simply.
It was cozy here once, you know. The soft thickness of the lush carpet she’d chosen. The low lights. It was all theirs.
Did you ever love me? Do you love her?
He briefly wonders whether there are more leaves in the living room, where they’d lie on the royal blue sofa; blankets about them and the hum of warmth. His hands would tingle her secret back—under blanket, sweater, and shirt. Don’t stop, she’d plead. I won’t, he’d reassure. Their eyes were on the glow of the television.
She doesn’t seem to mind the leaves. He turns to her delicate, lovely ear, offering unbelievable, desecrated gospel. He still believes.
She only ever read empty words for three months. My life—my actions were with you. It was all, always real. My love was final. It was all I believed in.
Her head moves in his embrace and he imagines her looking at the whispering blinds. She would lay across his chest on lazy late weekend afternoons with eyes closed. On trips they would drive in a bubble of congenial melodies. In the hospital he’d hugged her gently lest it hurt her post-heart surgery. In his arms she would forget her chest’s red stitching and he would forget her looming death. His laughter alleviated all as did hers in return. His shy smile she used to coax, I love your smile.
Please wink at me, he used to beg her beauty.
He says a default.
I’m sorry.
So she claws his back as her head cowers in his shoulder, his chest. She is heaving; all unstitched. Nails drive into shirt into flesh and he speaks on; death and future.
I hope you will be able to forgive me one day. In ten years, twenty, fifty. And if not, I will understand. I promise. I will not forgive myself.
His phone eviscerates the moment. He reaches for it and answers brusquely, voice choked.
Yeah, I’m coming. One minute.
Ten more pass.
She releases him, for good, this time, and he walks to stand by the door to the apartment. Final glance at their space. She stands across as a leaf tumbles toward him in her stead. A pity.
She would unlock the door, and he would bring in bags and boxes and love and comfort unto eternity.
He kneels to run his hand across a length of silken fur gliding in the opposite direction. Head to tail. Last touch. Already? Yes. So abruptly.
He rises with leaf in hand and he is not equipped for a goodbye’s black finality. But something is uttered, nonetheless.
Her eyes. If faced directly. He doesn’t dare.
Goodbye, boy. You’re good. Take care.
He closes the door behind him. So gently. Then elevator from fourth floor to lobby as he crumbles, reassembles, and leaves.