Love, Abandoned

Pieces of his presence stick to the apartment like adhesive, as if they are truly afraid of letting go because they know that they comprise all that's left of him. If they vanish, he too will disappear in the vast empty space where his life once stood. So it is my job - no, it is my duty to maintain these pieces day by day. To polish, furnish, and revitalize his existence; to keep him tangible rather than a memory with the potential to fade over time.

A canvas sack rests against the coffee table in the living room, filled with his books. Books he never read, but whose passages I, in the passing months, came to memorize. The Brothers Karamazov. The Beautiful and the Damned. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I read them all not once, but twice, hoping to find some sort of answer between the barely-worn pages, a reason for his departure that I might be able to actually understand.

In the bedroom, on the dresser, all of his hats are lined up in an impeccably neat row. His red, frayed trucker cap that he liked to wear at an angle, that I complained covered far too much of his face. The cuffed beanie hat from his childhood days that he insisted on wearing out in public, even though it was too small. The gray wool cap that I knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes I put them on and model them in front of the mirror, marveling at our differences. Marveling at how I found him in the first place. Wondering if I’ll ever find him again.

Every day, I dust the bedroom thoroughly, afraid of dirt and cobwebs creeping into and stealing away the place we used to so intimately share. Whenever I clean, I listen to music to ward off the dead silence that hovers closely overhead. A mix CD he gave me for my birthday plays in the background, each song a slideshow of memories that often seem more vivid, more present than my actual waking life.

“There you are,” my brother walks into the room, tossing the spare key onto the bed beside me. He looks miserable; tired. Then I realize that I’m staring at my own reflection in his eyes.

My only response is a gentle humming, the nostalgic music a barrier between us. He sighs. “Of course you’re in here. Where else would you be?”

I ignore his agitated tone of voice and continue dusting, finding the long, sweeping motions of my hands across a well-known surface safe and therapeutic. On the bedside table sits a framed picture of us, and I stare at it, into our young, smiling faces, before covering it completely with my small dustrag. There are certain days when I can’t even think about how happy we used to be.

“When are you going to give up?” he asks.

I continue humming along with Stevie Nicks, my soft voice mixing with her sultry one and filling the silence.

“He met some…some girl out in Phoenix. Apparently she’s pregnant. Apparently he’s moving in with her. Did he tell you any of this?”

I stop humming, and sit down abruptly on the bed beside my brother. The next song tiptoes into the tension; it’s Led Zeppelin’s “No Quarter.” My eyes fill with tears.

“Of course he didn’t tell you,” he continues, answering his own question. “He didn’t tell you he was leaving in the first place, so why would he tell you that he’s not coming back?”

They carry news that must get through
To build a dream for me and you…

“He’s not coming back, Steph,” he says, the edge to his voice replaced with a softness flanked by pity. He wants to comfort me, I can tell, but he makes no move to hug me.

I wait for the song to end; it takes several long minutes. By the time it has finished, I’m standing up, uncovering the photograph, polishing its bright, glossy surface.

I can handle living with ghosts, I think, as long as they promise to never leave me.

(word count: 686)

Time After Time

“When do you think you will come back down?” I ask cautiously, slowly swallowing each word as I spoke. My hands folded and unfolded the same pair of red socks, the last thing I need to pack. I’m standing at the foot of the bed, with an open carry-on suitcase sitting in front of me. Ben is staring at the computer screen with his back to me, scrawling down the number of the airport shuttle service.

“I don’t know yet, I will have to check my vacation hours…” He trails off, with an unconvincing and reluctant answer. We both know he’s lying. “Your shuttle should be here at ten.”

“I’ll have some time off in the beginning of --” The phone rings. I shut my mouth, with the tangled words I didn’t say evaporating into the cold, grey room. Ben picks up the phone and stands up, glancing over once to look at my suitcase before stepping into the entryway.

“Hello?” I hear him answer, muffled through the corners of his San Francisco studio apartment. My heart starts to throb faster in my chest, my pulse rising. I shove the sock into the suitcase and quickly zip it up before he returns. Checking the clock, I notice that his bedside clock has been stuck at 9:20 for the past fifteen minutes. I reference my cell phone, and realize that it was already quarter to ten. Jumping up to check the bathroom one last time, I overheard Ben in the hallway.

“No, I have a guest over…” He says softly, rushing the person off the phone.

I feel a visible hole start to grow in the pit of my stomach, and I clutch it in one hand, holding my cardigan together to cover the developing pit. Open medicine cabinet behind mirror, check. No toothbrush, no toothpaste, no mundane domestic object to gesture that I may have ever been here. The mysterious pink clip still sits on the ledge of the first shelf, the remaining specks of worn away glitter wink at me. My stomach lurches again as I slam shut the cabinet, almost a little too hard as Ben peeks in following the beep signaling the hang up.

“Are you okay?” He asks, eyes darting around the bathroom before finally resting on me. I turn my head towards him but keep my fingers clutched around my cardigan.

I nod. “I’m fine.” I brush past him, back out into the main room. In a swift moment, I set the suitcase on its little rolling feet, and slinging my leather bag onto my shoulder. I quickly button up my cardigan before I stand up straight to face him.

“I’ll just head down there now,” I say briskly, heading towards the door. He steps aside and observes me without expression. As he starts to follow me out the front door, I turn to him and press a hand to his chest. “I think I should be okay from here. I’ve done this several times already.”

“Are you sure?” Ben uncomfortably rubs the back of his neck with one hand, his other resting on the doorknob.

“Yeah.” I reply, nodding assuringly while feeling the hole tunnel up my chest. He purses his mouth to one side, looking me in the eye questioningly. “Yeah,” I say again, softly, nodding my head and turning away from him towards the elevator.

I press the button, and then turn to look at him standing at the door way. “By the way,” I start, as the elevator door opens. “Your clock’s stopped.”

He looks startled by the remark, startled that this is all I had to say to him in this moment where we both knew that this is probably the last time we would ever see each other again. “Oh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. See you later, Ben.” I say, stepping into the elevator and pressing the Lobby button. I wave, awkwardly, as the doors close and I can hardly believe that this is what our past five years had come down to. I guess we’ve run out of time.

(681 words)

Day 3: Loveless

27: Loveless. Create a character around this sentence: Nobody has ever loved me as much as I have loved him. Do not use this sentence in the fragment of fiction you write. This sentence comes from Guy Davenport's aunt, Mary Elizabeth Davenport Morrow, via his essay "On Reading" in The Hunter Gracchus. Resist the temptation this exercise offers for a completely self-indulgent character. Of course, some self-indulgence will be fun. Think of this sentence as a kind of mathematical formula. Is the person who utters this sentence speaking of all the friends and loved ones he has known in his life? Or is she focusing on one person who did not return love satisfactorily? Consider the strong possibility that whoever would say something like this is unreliable. 500 words.