Police stop ahead, road closed, the sign said. The flashing lights of police vehicles blocked the road ahead. An officer with a paddle sign indicated that he wanted me to pull over onto the verge. My passenger took in a deep breath, I felt his tension as we pulled over. Bent over looking into the car the officer gave a friendly greeting. ‘Good morning sir, I am afraid you will need to find an alternative route. The road ahead and a number of bridges have been washed away in the storms. You can do a U turn here,’ said the young officer.

‘The alternative road will make the trip an hour or so longer.’ I said to my passenger as I executed the turn. The man next to me hadn’t said much since picking him up a few minutes earlier.

‘Yeah that’s fine’ he had relaxed somewhat from earlier when we had stopped for the police, his arm now resting on the windowsill, his hand around the assist grip above the window.

I made my way down the main street of the town to the country road marked as the tourist route. I had often taken this road as a quieter, more scenic and relaxed drive than the quicker direct main route along the east coast, this would eventually link back to the highway. It would be another hour and half before we reached the Pacific Highway on our way to Sydney. The road was in fair condition but the heavy rains had eroded some of the bitumen surface which would make the journey slower.

Visiting my parents on the farm was always a welcome break from my hectic schedule in Sydney and I tried to get up to see them as often as possible. They had a small dairy farm in the foothills of Barrington Tops in New South Wales and as with my previous visits it had been good to feel and smell the earth, my mothers home homemade cooking, as well as the early morning milking stints with my Dad. On my last night before heading back to Sydney we had followed a long held family tradition of a visit to the RSL club. A pub meal, a few ales and a catch up with friends.

I hadn’t come across Jock for a while. We had gone our separate ways once we had left school so it came as a surprise when he sidled up to me at the bar and after a short exchange of where have you been, what are you up to conversation he asked when I was returning to Sydney. An unexpected visitor of his needed a lift, his truck had broken down and he had asked Jock to arrange for it to be delivered to the garage after the weekend. ‘He is staying at the motel and I will give him the news and ask him to meet you outside at eight tomorrow. His name is Alan by the way’.

‘So Alan, how do you know Jock.’ I asked to make conversation as we left the town behind and settled into the drive past the small cluster of industrial buildings and modest homes that lined the road and onwards past farmland and through the rolling green hills of country New South Wales. ‘I met him on the mines in Western Queensland, we were both sparkies and Fifo’s he replied. ‘I didn’t know that Jock was a fly in fly out contractor on the mines, I knew he was an electrician but didn’t realise he had worked on the mines, that explains why I hadn’t seen him around for a while.’ ‘Yeah he was surprised to see me but he had told me that should I ever be down his way to look him up. Glad he has been able to help out with my Ute as well.’ He had noticeably relaxed even more now that we were out of the town. He kicked off his boots by levering them off at the heel with his toes. I noted that his socks could do with a wash in fact overall he could have done with a good scrub. ‘Where are you from’ All over the place mate, wherever I can find work.’ ‘Family’ I asked. ‘Nah, had me a woman once but she was a bloody mess, booze and drugs and that sort of thing you know. Mind if I have a fag’ he said pulling a twenty pack from his top pocket. ‘No I don’t like smoking in the vehicle if you don’t mind but I will stop later if you want.’ ‘Perhaps at the next big tree, I need a piss as well.’ he replied with a chuckle. We travelled in silence for a while as I started to regret that I had offered this character a lift, his clothes were permeated with tobacco smoke and I turned up the air con to refresh the air ‘Here we go’ I said as I eased off the road and pulled into a rest area. We both walked over to the toilet block and as we went Alan pulled out his pack of cigarettes pausing momentarily to light one. Back at the car I had opened the boot and pulled a couple of cokes out of the cool box. It was packed with fresh dairy products from the farm and a 6 pack of cokes and bottled water as well as a selection of chocolates and snacks. 'Alan’ I said, holding a can toward him. Alan leaned against the car, he had removed his socks and was walking barefoot ‘shit got me a bloody thorn’ he said as he raised one leg and crossed it over the other so he could see under his dirty foot and pull out the thorn. ‘That’s better’ he said, showing me the thorn held between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Big bugger’ he laughed followed by a chesty cough. ‘You got a woman’ Alan asked as we stood sipping our cokes and Alan lit another cigarette. ‘Yes she’s at home in Sydney and couldn’t make it this weekend as she had a number of work issues.’ ‘Where do you guys live.’ I felt uneasy and needed to think quickly and not be too specific. " We are on the Northern Beaches and you’ I said, trying to turn the conversation back to him. ‘Wherever I can find somewhere to shack up. I have some mates in Sydney and will probably find a bed with one of them for a while’ ‘’What’s up with your truck’ I asked, moving the conversation away from accommodation in Sydney. It was the last thing I needed for him to ask me for a bed for a night or two. ‘It's a load of junk, never buy a Ford I can tell you, Toyota anytime for me, bloody things go forever. My Dad had one and he clocked over 300 thou with it before he had a fight with a tree.’ He laughed, slapping his thigh ‘what a piss cat’ he sighed poor bugger is no longer here but Mum is still around somewhere in Queensland.’ ‘You must do well for yourself’ turning the conversation back to me. ‘Fancy wheels’ he said, patting the bonnet ‘Lexus top of the range mate.’ 'Let’s get going’ I said 'we have a way to go.' The damage from the heavy rains of the past days were now even more evident, road conditions had detoriorated, it was slow going avoiding wash-aways and some fallen branches. ‘Not another detour’ I said exasperated as we passed slow down signs and were directed onto a small unpaved track. ‘We need to keep going, surely we will be directed back onto a better road.’ I thought as I negotiated the rough surface and larger puddles. The farmlands we had passed for most of the journey had now given way to gum forests and there was little evidence of habitation anywhere.  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere mate’ Alan said. Like I didn’t already know that. ‘Yeah sure feels like it’ I replied, holding my voice in check from sounding impatient. I didn't need any sort of confrontation, becoming increasingly annoyed with my passenger. I was beginning to have a sinking feeling that we were getting lost and perhaps the detour signs had actually taken us in the wrong direction. We had no cell phone reception either so there was no way to check google maps and try and get some idea of our location. We were heading away from a southerly direction in a more westerly direction. I pulled over on the verge in a clearing and decided to conduct a reconnaissance from a higher vantage point. ‘Thank shit’ Alan said ‘I could do with a smoke while you decide where we are. It seems you have got us lost up the creek without a paddle.’

I could clout this guy. He was really annoying me now and was in no way being helpful. I wanted to walk through the forest to find higher ground but there was no way I could leave Alan alone with the car, by now I felt I could not trust him. ‘I need to walk a way through there’ I said pointing to a fire trail. ‘You go mate, I will look after the car while I have a smoke, I have to be careful not to cause a fire’ he said chuckling in a sanctimonious manner. ‘On second thoughts’ I said as I opened the cubby hole and pulled out an old paper map that I suddenly recalled having just in case such a situation ever arose. I spread the map on the bonnet as Alan walked off smoking and whistling some unknown pointless sounding tune. He returned a while later ‘Figured out where we are yet.’ I was confident that I had worked it out, telling him that we would carry on. ‘Got anything stronger than cokes in the cool box’ he said. ‘Sorry no but help yourself to another coke or water if you prefer.’ He grabbed a coke and a Kit Kat popped the can and opened the Kit Kat without offering any to me as he put the chocolate wafers into his mouth two at a time and threw the wrapper onto the floor of the passenger side as he took his seat. Hairpin bends curved endlessly around the forested hills and our pace was now even slower as the road wound its way downward, Alan had stopped his annoying whistling through his teeth, he was fast asleep, mouth open in his unshaven face and straggly hair curling on his shoulders, it had been a welcome respite and given me time to think.

 I was confident this would eventually lead to the valleys below but with the swollen cumulus clouds now threatening rain I was doubting we could carry on traversing the slippery road if we had a downpour. Large drops of rain hit the windscreen and with the accumulation of dust and mud, the wipers at full speed smeared the windscreen and we could not safely proceed. I pulled over once more to wait out the storm. ‘’Journey from hell’ I cursed. Alan woke up with a start. ‘Would have been quicker by train I reckon’ Alan quipped.  ‘So what do you do for bob’ he said as he leaned the back of his head against the window and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. ‘No smoking please’ ‘It's bloody raining mate, I can’t go out in this’ his voice was now threatening and worried me. ‘I reached over the seat and handed him an umbrella. ‘Use this.’ ‘Bloody snob’ he muttered under his breath as he opened the door, holding it open longer than needed and letting in more rain. I watched him walk off into the rain to a tree sheltered clearing.

My phone pinged several times letting me know that we were now back in cellphone range. I opened the messages, ‘ Your passenger is a fugitive and on the run, dump him and call the police. Dad’. ‘We are worried the police are trying to track you down.Mum’ ‘NSW Police please make contact soonest. ’ Alan had wandered off and I could make out that he was obviously relieving himself next to a tree further down the clearing. I reached over the seat and pulled his bag over to the front, started the car, opened my window and threw the bag out as I pulled away.

The rain was pelting down but I had to take the chance, even at the safe speed there was no way he could catch up. The storm was short lived and the road was winding its way down into the valley and a straight road ahead. Pulling over to the side of the road I called my Dad first, he told me that Alan was on the run. He was suspected of murder and other crimes in Queensland and was now also wanted for questioning by the local police, Jock had been found seriously assaulted earlier in the day..

The flashing lights of police cars were in the distance coming toward me. I sat back and waited. I noticed Alan’s muddy boots and dirty socks on the floor of the passenger seat.


When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter.

Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops. Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him. He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie. Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads…?” “Yeah. What is that?” “A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.” “Hilda? “She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.” “Wow.” “Been here since before I was born.” “She’s old!”

They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends. The ducks dispersed. Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.” “Really?” “That’s what he told me.” Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear. A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water. The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.” “Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.” “Birds do.” “But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.” “But how…?” “Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.” “What am I made for?” “Good question. What are you good for?” Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer. He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair. “Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.” Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed. He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest. Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games. One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game. Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary. Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?” “Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play… To keep from getting sacked.” “But it worked. We won the game…” “There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.” “Why did we win if everything went wrong?” “Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.” “I know, Dad. But Friday?” “Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.” The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples. Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.” “Let’s hear it.” He unfolded a paper, “’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park. And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark. There the ducks live in trees, The crows do as they please. The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark…’ He looked up. Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.” Cliff laughed. “It is?” Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?” “No. I just wrote it.” “Then I love it.” “You do?” Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.” The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day. He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.” The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table. He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn. “I heard them talking about the train.” “The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?” “Not sure. What’s three hours away?” Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass. Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.” “What’s up?” “Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.” “Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...” “That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.” Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs. Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly. When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.” “I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.” “And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.” Roger and Donna exchanged looks.

He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here… What if… I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this. ‘Why? Why? Why…?’ Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’ He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys. “Drive around. I don’t know… Look between here and Grand Central… I’ll scout the Garden.” He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out. Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?” The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man… freakin’ tourist…” Dead end. He had been so sure. Now what? Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed. People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance. “Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long… I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if… or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe… You can’t… please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got… I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week… every day. Just bring him back safe. Please…” Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands. His cell phone rang. It was Roger. “We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42 nd , at Bryant Park.” Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face. Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.” The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that…” Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out…” The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding. Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that. Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises…’ He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.


Frank sits down at his desk in his home office. He pulls out some paper and his favorite fountain pen. He looks outside his window to the large flower garden that his wife has spent much time growing. He admires all the different types of lilies and chrysanthemums, among others, and the various blooms each one produces. He watches his wife, Wendy, as she meticulously trims one at a time. Frank looks at the paper in front of him and starts to write his will. I, Franklin P. Daniels, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare this document to by my last will and testament. He sat there for a moment and thought about everything he had that he wanted to leave to his loved ones. His large home in the country with a hundred acres; the bank account that keeps him and his wife financially stable; and the investments that continues to load the bank account with more money. All his earthly possessions added up to well over ten-million dollars, according to Stan, his accountant and best friend. “To list each possession will be a chore,” Frank thought to himself. He started to write down the name of each person that he wanted to leave something to – His wife, the two children, and Stan. Each person meant a lot to Frank, and each would get what he believed they deserved. He met Wendy 40 years ago and has been married to her for thirty-seven of those years. His oldest son, Steven, is thirty-eight has never once questioned why he was older than they were married. The youngest, Michelle, is thirty-one, and she did the math in her head a long time ago. Frank remembers when she came to him in his office and asked why Steven was a year older than we were married. Frank’s answer was a lie. He told Michelle that he and her mother were together one last time before he had left for the war. It was a couple of months later that he found out she was pregnant. They would be married when he returned, after Steven was born. Frank never did tell Michelle the truth that Steven was not his son. He thought it would bring up more questions than he had answers for at the time. Wendy was the only other person to know this, and they never spoke of it. Not even Steven’s real father knew the truth about him. Frank believed both of his children were fantastic kids. Each one graduated Magna Cum Laude and ended up with wonderful careers and families. He could not be more proud of them. Stan was Franks best friend and had been since elementary school. They met in the sixth grade when his family moved next door. They quickly became comrades and have been for sixty years. Stan was there for Frank’s graduation from high school, and then his college roommate in Stanford. When Frank got married to Wendy, Stan was his best man. Stan was more like a brother to Frank than a friend. They had been through a lot together and nothing ever tore them apart. Frank remembered when he had found out about his pancreatic cancer, Stan was the first one he told. He helped him come up with the words to tell Wendy and the kids and stood by his side when he did. Frank looked down at the paper again and started to write. To my wife, I leave the home and all the investments. To my children, Steven and Michelle, I leave my bank accounts divided evenly amongst the two of you. To Stan, I leave one cent. To all of you, I leave you with this knowledge… Back in 1968, the year Steven was conceived, and I was in Europe on business, I know Wendy was “comforted” by someone other than me. (Wendy knows who.) During my absence, Wendy fell into temptation of a great man. Someone better than myself. Someone that I have admired for years. From that brief encounter, Steven was conceived and born.

Stan, I know that you were that man. I have known since 1968.

Steven, I give to you your real father, Stan. And Stan, I give to you your son, Steven. Wendy, I know you did not want anyone to know, but if you are reading this, then I am no longer around to hide it any longer. I thought it would be best if you were honest with Stan and Steven. They each deserve to know the truth. Frank knew putting this in his will would be the only way the truth would get out. Frank loved Stan like a brother, and he did not want to bring up that he knew without knowing how he would react.

When you find out your best friend had an affair with your wife while you were away is bad, discovering that she got pregnant from it is even worse. While Frank was finishing his will, a knock came on his office door. “Yes. Come in,” Frank said. Steven walks in. “Ah, Steven, how are you?” “I’m fine, dad. How about you?” Ever since Frank was diagnosed with cancer, Steven was always there for him. The love and respect they had for each other could only be compared to that of the bond Frank had for Stan. There was nothing that could tear it apart, no matter what challenges were faced. “What can I do for you, son?” Frank said. “Mom just asked me to check on you,” Steven said. “I guess you’ve been in here all morning and she was just worried.” “I’m fine,” Frank said with a smile. “Your mom is probably just worried because of this dam disease.” “Do you blame her, dad?” Steven said. “We all know it’s getting close to the end. I want you to know I’m here for you. Don’t go and hide on us when it’s time. You need us to help you through this.” “You’re right, son,” Frank said. “I promise I will let you know if I’m not doing well.” “Can I ask what you’re working on?” Steven said. Frank thought for a moment. “I guess I can tell you. I’m working on my will.” “You’re will?” Steven said. “I thought you had already done that?” “I did,” Frank said. “There were a couple of changes I had to make. Nothing major. Just something I wanted to add for everyone.” Frank stood from his desk and walked into the living room with Steven. Two days later, Frank would die. The reading of the will took place the next day. Things would never be the same afterwards.


There is a package sitting on my bed. I find it when I drop my bag on the floor after work, ready to go to the kitchen and wash my hands. Initially, I am a little annoyed. I don’t want a parcel from outside touching my quilt. Barb must have put it there, and I consider talking to her about it, but after the bath towel incident, I don’t want to bother her. On closer inspection the package does not have a shipping label, so maybe Barb wrapped it herself, in which case I don’t mind it being on my bed. Oh. My name is written on the brown paper, printed with black ink in a familiar hand, neat when it tries, and clearly it tried. Not Barb, then. Since it does not appear to have been through the postal system, I leave the package there and go to wash my hands. The sink needs wiping down, and I think maybe I’ll do that over the weekend unless I’m pulled into something else. My apartment is the first place I’ve lived without adult supervision. It’s two bedrooms and a small kitchen on the third floor of a building near campus, with ugly pink walls that, as renters, we can’t paint over.

Barb and I moved in together out of convenience and stayed out of friendship, after the first few weeks of getting to know each other’s routines. She’ll be back from biology class in maybe an hour, and then we’ll chat while she makes dinner. I go back to my room and sit down carefully on the edge of the bed. Maybe I should unpack my bag and tidy up before I open the package. But I’m too curious now, so I pick it up and slip a finger under the carefully-taped paper, not tearing it even a bit as I unwrap. It’s my book.

Mine, the one I wrote. Inside the front cover, I can see it’s not one of my signed copies, but there is a note.

I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t someone you could tell, when this came out. I loved your book, Lydia. There is no signature, and I don’t need one. For the hell of it, I flip to a random page, and almost laugh. There are notes jotted in all the margins, gel pen smears and smiley faces and underlined passages. I put the book aside, gently laying it on my patchwork quilt. I can’t do this right now. She wrote my name twice, on the wrapping and in the note. Lydia. Ly-di-a, three syllables. Ly-di-a. Lea-der-ship. Trust-wor-thy. Ob-sess-ive. Ob-sess-ive. Ob-sess-ive. Yeah, I get it. I wasn’t perfect. I am so far from perfect it makes me laugh sometimes, and mostly I don’t mind. I’m the only one I’m never good enough for. Except for her, maybe, or maybe it wasn’t her at all, but it still hurt. It’s still been two years.

I’m still not mad. I think I should be, and for a while I was. But not anymore. I’m drifting too much to hold onto anything, especially a grudge against someone I love that much. At first, she was everywhere. Birthday cards tacked to my corkboard, t-shirts folded in my dresser, scarf hanging by the door. I think her love language was gifts, and maybe that’s part of why we didn’t work. I didn’t give my friend, in the material sense, anywhere near as much as she gave me. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it wasn’t really about the gifts. It was about communication, and when did we ever do that? Still, things she gave me were all over my room, and it stung. Now most of those things are gone or packed away. I thought they’d stay that way. I stand up and unpack my bag. I fold my laundry and vacuum the rug and wash my hands again and put a burrito in the microwave for a snack. Then I wash the dishes I found at a department store downtown. While I’m doing that, Barb comes in through the door, the sound making me flinch, since it came so suddenly out of the quiet. “Hey, Lydia,” she says. “You lovely human!” She adds, noticing the mostly clean laminate countertop.

I just smile, and she gets it, that I don’t have anything to say. She sets down her textbooks on the counter and sits on one of the bar stools. “Did you see what I left on your bed?” she asks. “Yeah,” I say.

She waits to see if I’ll say anything else. “She asked me if you’d be mad,” she says. “I think she found me online, ‘cause I’d never seen her before. Is she an ex?” “Not like that,” I say. “Ex-best friend, I guess. We aren’t really on speaking terms right now.” Barb nods. “What was inside?” “My book,” I tell her. “She wrote a note inside.” It’s clear in her eyes that she doesn’t really know how to talk to me about this. I wish I could tell her, but I don’t know what I would say. That it’s a touchy subject but she doesn’t need to worry about it? How is she supposed to take that? Living without adults – we’re eighteen, but that doesn’t mean anything because neither of us considers ourselves grown-up – has been an interesting experience for all the wrong reasons. When we split up chores, we decided that I would do most of the cleaning and Barb would cook. What that has meant so far is that our apartment always smells faintly of vinegar and Clorox; and for dinner tonight we are eating cornbread, carrot sticks, and what is probably supposed to be rice pudding, but which I have decided not to ask about, in case it comes off as rude. It tastes pretty good, regardless of what it’s meant to be. “Do you want to talk about it?” Barb asks. She is halfway through her cornbread, which is slightly burnt on the bottom and slightly gooey in the center, but not enough of either to complain about unless you are Paul Hollywood or under the age of six. She said the oven was the wrong temperature. “The cornbread?” I say, taking a large sip of water. She raises an eyebrow, and I look back, pretending I don’t know what she means even though I very well do. “The note,” she explains. “Some girl came up to me after work, asked if I was Barb Haufmann, handed me a package with your name on it, and told me she missed you. You don’t owe me an explanation, but if you don’t mind too much, I’d like some backstory.” “She misses me?” “Are you sure she’s not an ex?” I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.” I bite the end off a carrot stick and chew it all the way. “We were friends as little kids. A couple years ago she decided we shouldn’t be. Said I didn’t care about her interests, I think. I don’t know if it was really about me, though.” Barb winces. As understanding as she is, sometimes she takes it a little too seriously when someone gets mad at me for a little social thing I forget to do – in this case, talk about things other than whatever I’m buried in at the time. “She doesn’t sound very nice.” “She was, though. She was the kindest person I knew. She was just in the middle of a complicated relationship with someone else, and it got… a little manipulative. I think.” I don’t actually know the details, and it frustrates me. I try not to theorize. “Sounds like one of those situations you need to stay out of for your own health,” Barb says. “Maybe,” I say. I chew another carrot to mush. “I’m going to make her something.” Barb sighs. “I won’t stop you. Just be careful, Lydia.” “She’s my best friend,” I say firmly, present tense because I told her I needed time, not that we shouldn’t be friends again.

I wash the dishes while Barb dries, then curl up in bed with my sketchbook and laptop. I don’t draw very much, but I don’t think that’s really the point, in this case.

There was a cartoon show, that we watched when we were younger. I remember emailing back and forth past midnight, looking at the fan art she drew and telling her how much I liked it, even if that was before I’d seen the show when I didn’t know the characters. I remember feeling high on conversation and the sort of jokes pre-teens think are scandalous. I sketch out the two main characters from her show. Underneath, in a gel pen from middle school that I think she complimented once, I write: I miss you. It’s small, and the edge of the paper rips when I try to tear it out along the perforated edge. It’s nothing compared to how long it must have taken her to mark up my book. But maybe it’ll be enough. I know her address, the same one she had two years ago. I can tell – same wallpaper stains in the background of her Instagram posts, same fake marble countertop under pictures of meals she’s made. I don’t have Instagram, but I check her page sometimes, to convince myself she is real and alive and okay. The drawing goes in an envelope, sealed with a donut sticker like we’re still thirteen and addressed to just her first name, like she wrote on mine. I call to Barb that I’m going on a walk and step out into the damp, chilly October night. Should I check her posts now, I wonder if they would be filled with Halloween decorations. The mailbox at the drugstore makes me pause, partly because I’ve seen people touch that handle right after clumsily scooping up dog poop, and partly because what if this is a terrible idea, what if it’s not enough, what if she thinks the drawing means more than ‘I want to stop pretending we don’t care.’ I stare at the chipping blue paint, the box casting an eerie shadow in the dusk. The sticky air is somewhere between comforting and suffocating, and I’d better do this quick and get home before someone asks what a random girl is doing loitering in front of a mailbox. Still, I stand there for what is probably another five minutes before doing anything. Finally, I open the mailbox with two fingers and slip the letter inside, listening to it thunk down onto metal. As I run back home, I try to convince myself that the little ache in my stomach is just the urge to wash my hands.


(Trigger warning: sexual violence) I don’t want to go to this party. My friend Alyssa gave me an invite earlier this week, and I said yes. Such a stupid decision. I already knew that I didn’t want to go. Four days isn’t a long time to change my mind. But I said yes anyways.

I knock on the door, my fingers shut in a tight grip. I can hear music erupting from the inside of the flat. Poor neighbours! Alyssa greets me with that shining smile, that irresistible shining smile. I don’t have a crush on her though. Strange, as she is the most ideal woman imaginable.

“Hi Delilah!” Her voice is soft as silk, and at the same time harsch, cutting through the loud music. A glittering dress tight on her slender figure, a plastic cup clutched in her hand. Her eyes the colour of a milky cappuccino. I get a glimpse inside the flat; bright lights pop and an ocean of unknown people are already dancing.

“Hi! Am I late?” I giggle nervously and step inside, placing my thick jacket on an overfull hanger.

“No, not at all. Everyone just came early, nothin’ to worry about,” Alyssa says and waves me into the living room, her high heels clinking against the wooden floor. Some people turn their heads to see who just arrived, some are too invested in dancing, laughing and drinking to give a damn.

“Fancy a drink? I’ve got a wide selection.” She gestures to the extensive counter covered with bottles of soda, vodka, cheap beer and other indistinguible alcoholic beverages.

“Yes, a glass of Coca-Cola please.” Alyssa obediently fills a red cup to the brim with Coca-Cola. Her hands are shaking, it’s obvious she has refilled her own cup a few times before my arrival.

“Here’s your drink! I’m in the mood for some dancing, want to follow?” she says, hiccuping in between words. The sugary drink sticks to my tongue like my grandmother’s porridge always does.

“I think I’ll pass for now. When I’m ready I’ll gladly join you on the dancefloor,” I exclaim to be heard over the pulsating music, my voice drenched in false enthusiasm. Alyssa gives me a thumbs up and dissolves into the mass of dancing people.

I move toward the hot-pink sofa and squeeze myself into the far corner, in order to distance myself from the people already occupying it.

“Hello there! What a party!” says a girl in a raspy scottish accent and lifts her plastic cup, as if she wants to toast.

“Hi. Yes indeed, what a party!” I say, meeting her cup in a toast. But the collide is a bit too rough and orange liquid splatters her skirt. Her eyes drill into mine. The wish to sink through the pink cushions and disappear, immediately enters my mind. The scottish girl and the other people sitting on the sofa go back to their chat. Thank God!

Exactly fixty-seven seconds later, I gather up the courage to stop scratching my bleeding cuticles and remove myself from the sofa. With shaky legs I walk toward the dance floor, observing every millimeter of my surroundings.

My heart skips several beats when I see you. Sitting in a bean bag with your legs spread and your arm flung around a blonde girl’s shoulder. I know you’re aware of me observing you, you must be. You’re aware of things like that. It had been exactly ninety-nine days since I last saw your face. Your nose with the bump only visible from the side. The corners of your mouth, twitching. Your hair shimmering like bronze. Your eyes, the darkest shade of black. It had been ninety-nine wonderful days. Wonderful yet terrible days.

I try to suppress the thought of you, but it’s hard when my brain is painted in the colors of your skin against mine. I step into the pool of humans; their arms punching toward the ceiling, their bodies twisting and their heads shaking. I try to replicate a girl’s movements, but stop when she falls into the arms of another girl and they start jiggling together. The heavy beat vibrates the floor and shatters my thoughts. I jump to the rhythm and Alyssa appears beside me. She has had more to drink, her eyelids flickering, her words slurry.

“Havi’ fun?”

“Sure,” I answer. Which isn’t completely true, but the lie slides off my tongue like a child in a waterslide. Alyssa nods, or maybe she’s just shaking her head to the music, I can’t tell.

I dance for an eternity, which probably is around two-hundred seconds. And suddenly my pantsuit is sitting too tight.

Tight enough for my lungs to lock like a zipper. Tight enough for my field of sight to blur.

Tight enough for my knees to weaken and my bones to transform into jelly.

I need to get away. Quickly. Insanely fast. I sprint away, slithering between the jumping people and ducking when I hit a wall of human flesh. My heart beats in my throat, sweat dripping along my spine. I’ve been to Alyssa’s place many times before and therefore know that there are two bathrooms in her flat. One bathroom positioned very close to the large living area, and one bathroom with an entrance inside Alyssa’s bedroom. The choice is very simple.

Alyssa’s bed is the size of my kitchen, her rug soft like clouds and the walls painted in the lightest of violett. I don’t have the time to recognize more details before my fingers slide over the handle and I’m inside her bathroom. My hand trembles as I turn the lights on, and then shut them off again. I do this nine times. It’s such an old habit I don’t even realize I’m doing it. The light is bright like the sun and my eyes are burning. Liquid streams from them. I instinctively think it’s blood. But my panicked reflection tells me otherwise. It’s just tears. The normal stupid salty tears that insist to wet my cheeks everytime my heart starts to race. Everytime anxiety meets panic. The sound of my rattling breaths overpower the pounding beats from the living room. I close my eyes and everything ceases to exist for a second. It’s nice. Nicer than it should be.

I sit on the toilet with my face buried in my lap. I never should have attended this party. It was a stupid idea. Somewhere in the whirlwind of minutes and seconds that passes by, I conclude that I need to get out of this bathroom. My makeup is ruined, but I’m too ruined to care. Hopefully I can disappear in the thick mist of drunk people and colorful lights. Fingers crossed.

When I come out of my hiding place, I see you sitting on Alyssa’s bed. My body flies several centimetres off the fluffy floor. Your black eyes are staring directly into mine. The door out of this room is shut with intention; the intention to block any escape route.

“Hi.” My voice is squeaky, despite my try to sound strong and resilient. In the soft glow from the spiral-like ceiling light, you can clearly see I’ve been crying. But you don’t care. Because why would you?

“Hello Delilah,” you say, the familiarity ringing in my ears. With swift movements you move towards me and I can feel my heart boxing my chest.

“Who was that girl?” I whisper. My high heels are the only thing I dare to look at. You pin my wrists to the wall. “A nobody.” “Really?” Silence. “Am I a nobody?” “No, Delilah. You’re far more than a nobody. You’re my somebody.” Unwillingly, your words tickle me. I don’t want them to. I want to be the opposite magnet to you. But my magnetic force isn’t strong enough to keep you away. Suddenly I feel your lips on mine, and I yank back. But my body is pressed to the wall, so I can’t escape. Our eyes are still open, our lips barely touching.

“No. Please, no. I don’t want —” I get interupted by your mouth silencing me, and my hope sinks like a stone. This has happened so many times before I don’t even try to wrestle out of your grip. Your breath tastes like beer and peppermint. You transport me to the bed, our fingers entwined.

“But you do Delilah. You do want to.” You take off your shirt in a smooth movement, as if you’ve done it thousands of times before. With a second thought, you probably have. You struggle with my pantsuit, your fingers trembling whilst unbuttoning the small buttons. I don’t mind, it’s nice with a few seconds to breathe properly.

I feel the material slide off my upper body, and then down my legs. You turn me so that I can’t avoid your eyes of darkness.

“But I don’t though. I don’t want to.” You kiss me again, with more passion, pushing me down into the mattress. I want to shout but my lungs are empty. I feel your hands sliding over my belly and downwards. You close your eyes. I don’t. I keep them wide open, so I can count your freckles, the counting distracts me from the pain. I also keep my fingers crossed. Because somewhere deep down, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to rescue me.

I’m not sure how long your body is on mine. Time is a funny thing. Sometimes seconds can feel like years, and sometimes months can swoop by without me noticing.

But sometime after the music from the living room dies and the voices subdue, you decide you’ve had enough. You silently put your clothes back on and I lay underneath the duvet, my eyes closed and imagine stars spread across a blackberry sky. “This will be our little secret. Right, Delilah?” I don’t say a word and you don’t bother. The door opens and closes with a noiseless click .

I crawl out of the bed, after an hour laying flat on my back and staring blankly to the ceiling. I drag my legs behind me. As quietly as I can, I tip on my toes through the flat. About twenty people are sleeping, lying on the sofas, curled up in bean bags or spread over mattresses that have been placed on the floor. I can’t see your body among all the others, you must’ve left. The clock on the back wall is everything that can be heard, the gentle ticking moving towards 4.00 am. My heels are left behind in Alyssa’s bedroom, so I take a random pair from the hallway, which are in my size. They’re a pair of Converse, the white material worn brown. I open the door and suddenly hear someone moving in the living room. I dare not glance back to see whom I awoke. I just shut the front door behind me and feel the crisp air gnaw at my skin.

My arms are exposed, I left the jacket in the flat. Another stupid decision, this time not intentional though. I feel dirty, you’re still stuck to my body like thick syrup. And I can’t rub you off. I think I’m crying, or maybe I’m not. If I’m being totally honest, I don’t fucking care.

The usually busy streets of London are frozen, both literally and abstractly. A thin slippery layer of ice covers the pavement, paired with piles of snow that lay scattered everywhere. But it’s also frozen in another way, the air trapped — the streets still, frozen in time. From here, I can’t see a single human. I’m sure I’m not the only soul haunting the streets this late at night — or early in the morning, depending on your sleeping habits — but I still feel surprisingly lonely.

I walk by my favourite café in town. At nine o’clock in the morning, the café opens and their buns and croissants are still warm. I stare into the frosted glass, my breath white against the window. I can see my usual spot in the far corner, where I always sit. It’s an armchair the colour of red wine, with a small table on the side, just the perfect size for a small plate with a baked good, and a steaming cup of Earl Gray tea. With two and a half teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk.

 If that spot is taken, then I’d rather skip breakfast.

My legs don’t feel like legs as I walk onward, my thoughts twirling with the icy breeze. I moved to London because I thought things would change. I thought I would change.

Spoiler alert: I did not.

The old buildings tower against a canvas of black, indigo, and blue. I like looking up at the sky, I would flee to the stars above if I had the opportunity. Up there, things feel meaningless. Easy.

Cars drive by, the startling lights temporarily damaging my sight. I walk onto the Tower Bridge, and stop halfway across. I stare down, into the bubbling river of dark shimmer. It looks cold, like a river someone could freeze to death in. My teeth squeak against each other, my turquoise fingertips rubbing the skin of my arms. Without acknowledging my own movements, I’m sitting on the blue railing, my legs dangling free. The strong wind keeps my body unbalanced, swaying between safety and the unknown. I feel my eyes burning again. It’s probably not blood. It’s probably the stupid tears again. Then, I hear a distant shout. “Delilah. What are you doing? Delilah!” I can feel the desperation echoing in Alyssa’s voice. It was her I must’ve awakened when I left the flat. “Please! Whatever you’re doing — stop. I can help.” But the thing is - she can’t. I’m a ruined ruin that can’t be un-ruined, not even by the magic hands of Alyssa. I look in her direction, and I can see a small figure standing a few hundred metres away from me. Not seeing her face clearly perhaps makes the choice easier to make. I let go. And funnily enough I’m still keeping my fingers crossed. Now — I don’t even have the ghost of a clue to why.

I’m falling, and this time I’m really frozen in time. I’m like a slug in slow-motion. Feelings overwhelm me, and they blend together into a smooth paste without lumps to distinguish the original feeling. The only thing etched in my mind as I’m falling through time and space is you . Your bloody face. The gleaming surface inches closer. Closer and closer … until my stolen pair of Converse breaks the surface and water swirls around me. Pain shoots through me like bullets. Cold pours through my clothes and bites my skin raw. Everything is liquid and bubbles. The water hugs me, in the most uncomfortable way possible. It’s thick and freezing cold, and I can’t determine whether I’m floating to the surface or sinking to the bottom.


They say that your life flashes before your eyes in the second right before you die. Multiply that by ten, and each time, over and over again, you get to relive a mistake you can’t correct.

It started when I accidentally slammed my son’s fingers in my car door while standing in a parking lot across from my ex-wife and the guy who’s banging her and wondering how much his silver Lexus cost. My son’s howling siren of pain informed me that I was focused on the wrong thing during our weekly custodial exchange, and I managed to screw something up once again. Still, why did Sandra opt to show up with her new boyfriend, Duncan, and in his car, not hers? During my short meditation on the topic, I didn’t see our son, Stephan, double back to grab something from my piece-of-shit Hyundai, so I blindly closed the door. I thought he was out of the car. I was wrong.

“Shit,” I yelled at Stephan. “What the fuck did you do?”

This could’ve been another uneventful drop-off, but now it’s a whole thing. I blame everyone for this misstep. It was Stephan’s fault for not reading my mind that I was about to shut the door.

It was Duncan’s fault for driving that damn car.

It was Sandra’s fault for bringing Duncan. It was also Sandra’s fault for asking to meet at a park instead of her house. Stephan’s howling was going to attract all kinds of unwanted attention from anyone within earshot. And who was that location convenient for, anyway? If it’s near Duncan’s house, meaning they were taking my boy to his place, I’m going to throw an indignant shit fit. I’ve met the guy only once before, but I don’t know if he’s got dogs, guns, drugs, or Hustler magazines lying about. And while I’m at it, why are there no other adults my age named “Duncan”? What era did this guy drop in from? I wrenched the door open, releasing Stephan’s hand from between the body and the window frame. There was no blood, but those fingers were going to swell up like sausages. If I can comfort him with one arm, while getting his ice pack from his lunch box with the other, all while strategically blocking Sandra and Duncan from swarming in and taking over, I can totally fix this shit show of my own creation.

In twelve years of marriage, Sandra was always the problem-fixer, bill-payer, tax-preparer, appointment-maker, decision-maven. My job was usually washing dishes and lifting heavy objects, no matter how much I attempted to get involved. Discussions went through her. Playdates were set up by her. Emails were sent to her. Parent-Teacher conferences would be conducted through the teacher and her, even as I sat there by her side.

Hey, I’m a parent of this kid too! Yeah, I screwed this up, but dammit, I needed to fix it. I knew I was perfectly capable of fixing it.

Back off, I’ve got this.

I hoped the two of them weren’t about to swarm in and take over. “Careless again, David,” Sandra spat at me, rushing in from the side.

Every syllable stung, all six of them, puncturing our entire history like pins in a voodoo doll wearing my favorite Batman shirt.

“Careless,” as in

You don’t care. You never do. You’re incapable of showing concern for anyone but yourself. You didn’t pay attention since it wasn’t about you.

“Again.”

A constant disappointment. Over and over, you screw everything up. Your only consistency is your ability to disappoint. It’s the only reliable part about you. “David!” I go by “Dave”. My friends call me “Dave”. I introduced myself to her as “Dave”. The only times she called me “David” was when I met her stuck-up parents, in our marriage vows, and at the divorce signing, confirming my full name on the decree. This time, she punctuated the second syllable as if she was telling a kindergarten class about curse words.

Students, you aren’t allowed to say the word ‘Da-VID’. That word means ‘the selfish, and maniacal destroyer of lives.’ ‘Dave’ is an acceptable variation… if you must. Now I’ve got two family members upset with me. His cries and her utter disgust nauseate and paralyze me into pathetic inaction. There was an emergency at hand, and in an instant, I couldn’t function with that much disappointment swirling in my toxic orbit.

Anyone else want to pile on? How about you Duncan? Got anything to say? “I’m a doctor, let me have a look,” Duncan said, right on cue.

I may be a piece of shit, but since we broke up, Sandra and I have done everything we could to maintain a civil, if not wholly pleasant relationship, and not just for the kid’s sake. It took a divorce to realize we made better friends than lovers. As part of a rather amicable separation, we chose to be up-front and honest about our lives moving on, without obligating our nine-year old with secrets he had to keep from either his mom or me. Sandra moved on much sooner than I did, and it was with Doctor Duncan. A month ago, both she and Stephan told me about her new boyfriend. I unexpectedly met him recently, when I bumped into them at the market. I confidently noted he was physically nothing like me, strangely aiding my pride by looking at an awkwardly tall and lanky bird-faced man in denim and tweed. My balding, pear-shaped body mocked him silently at the time, before he crushed my hand in a vice-grip handshake, then telling me about his successful pediatrician practice. My whimsical existence as a high school drama teacher kept my composure realizing our tax brackets were quite far apart before they walked off.

Now, here you are, on the scene, Dr. Boyfriend. Do you seriously need to announce your credentials to us, all to look at some pinched fingers? Want a real injury to deal with? How about I slice off your head, and shove it in that reusable shopping bag you vainly carried under your arm when we met? Thank God that in a city with thirty-thousand doctors, the only one on the scene is the one sleeping with my ex-wife .

I’m still unsure when the two of them met. Maybe they hooked up prior to that fateful three-hour, tearful talk in the kitchen before I moved out. Perhaps Sandra hasn’t told me everything about her life moving on. Thanks, doc. “Mommy, my fingers” Stephan cried out as he pushed out from my arms and fell into Sandra’s, as she kneeled down to my right with the now-retrieved ice pack. He simply gave up on me, opting for her instead, regardless of the week we just had, regardless of the fun we crafted. I fed him his favorite foods, broke some of mommy’s TV rules, played a few violent video games, all to his delight. Everything I invested into the Stephan and Daddy account was just withdrawn in an emotional heist successfully pulled off by mommy. Does he blame me for crushing his fingers? Probably, but since I’m was pushed out, I wasn’t given the chance to fix this.

As I stood next to the car door that started this whole mess, like a silent witness dumbfounded at what just happened, the three of them headed over to Duncan’s car in a wave of tears, soothing care from mom, and Duncan’s reassuring evaluation. “I know sweetie. I bet that hurts real bad. Keep the ice on it, ok?” “Don’t worry, buddy. Your fingers will be just fine.” The only thing I hate more than the weekly goodbye is when my only saving grace – my patented, routine farewell – has been hijacked.

I love to tell Stephan how he’s the best boy ever, and how daddy loves him very much no matter what. I hug him too long and attack him with machine gun kisses on his cheeks till he giggles, and then give him a loving raspberry on the other cheek. I do it every week. It’s a genuine sign of the copious love and affection I have for him and have been showing him since day one. Admittedly, when I pulled into the parking lot, seeing the two of them there, I had a vision of doing it with a few more kisses, and getting a few more giggles out of him, just because I can. How much longer will I get to shower him with that kind of ridiculous affection? He’s nine, and any second now, he’ll instantly be fifteen, and too cool for any of that. Our time together is wasting away. These drop-offs take a little piece of my heart every week, and an agonizing departure like this is pure torture. His howls of pain transitioned to guttural moaning and runny-nose sniffling that I can’t do a damn thing about if he’s walking away, and it’s the last thing I’ll remember of our week. Worst of all, I can’t say the two words that at a minimum, will help. “I’m sorry.”

They walked away with bags on adult shoulders, leaving no room for me to intercept. So, I stood there, helpless, pathetic, defeated, and unforgiven.

When they opened their car doors, both of our notification systems created a chaotic chorus of chimes and beeps, alarming us that our keys are still in their respective ignitions. My car sounds like a cheap alarm clock, yelling “GET UP, YOU LAZY ASS!”, compared to Duncan’s Lexus which gently pings like a single harp string plucked by an angel. His opulent, fucking Lexus. It’s no rust-eaten, navy blue Hyundai, that smells like a burrito died under the front seat like mine, that’s for sure. I remained standing by my car, looking for any sign of hope, or positive welfare, or even a weak smile of “ Don’t worry daddy, it’ll all be fine” . All I see is the back of Sandra’s head in the car, turned towards our child, and away from me. The only final acknowledgment I get is goofy-ass Duncan, shrugging his shoulders like some hapless, detached father who has no idea what his own offspring’s food allergies are.

Kids, what can you do? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t have a fucking clue of what’s going on so you just kidnap my family and ride off in your luxury chariot? Screw it, I’m done. I give up for today.

I sent them off on a safe journey to wherever they’re headed with my middle finger extended upwards in a salute. I think Duncan did a double-take, but I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it really landed or not, as I descended into my awaiting jalopy.

I slammed the door shut, and started the car, immediately turning the radio on as Duncan’s car pulled out from his spot. Led Zeppelin greeted me and I turned up the volume to accept their invitation to rock. Despite the excruciating volume level, I can still hear Stephan’s echoing cries from a few seconds ago, reverberating in my heart. She was right, damnit. The entire situation was my careless fault. If I was paying attention to the person that meant the most to me, instead of the asshole who meant the least, I would’ve seen Stephan’s every move, every smile, every laugh, every precious moment he gives me. I wouldn’t have crushed his innocent little fingers in my car door. I would’ve shouldered the disappointment in his eyes as he left my comfort and care. I would’ve looked at him with a smile and confidence, reassuring him that I’m the best dad in the world, and he’s my number one guy.

They say you can see your life flash before your eyes the second before you die. The last ten seconds killed me like ten miserable lives of regret and pain. So much anguish in such little time.

I turned the car off, extinguishing the music as quickly as I started it, irritated by all the noise, and the misplaced anger.

The parking lot is occupied by one car.

One driver, no passenger.


"Girl, are you ready yet?” Myrna impatiently asked through the phone. Thank goodness Myrna could not hear Janie rolling her eyes or else the control freak would peak its ugly head.  Myrna was a long term friend since Kindergarten and now they were in the summer, before becoming seniors in high school. Even though it had only been a year Janie was gone from her hometown, her friend, Myrna now seemed a stranger. “I’ll be ready soon. If I’m not there, just go ahead without me. I’ll meet you there”, Janie said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Alright. Fifteen minutes to get your ass here. If not – I’m outie.”

Janie hung up the phone and looked at herself in the mirror. Her long, thick brown hair waved down to her elbows. The hazel green, almond eyes looked lighter. Usually, that meant Janie was excited. Her eyes changed depending on the mood. Yet, truly, inside Janie was semi dreading seeing her old clique. She left south Florida because her step father abused her. She knew people talked once she left – even her so called friends. Fourteen years of abuse endured and now her mother, she was visiting, was finally divorced from the monster. You would never know the suffering Janie endured by looking at her face. Beautiful, the word many used to describe her, but she didn’t always see it.

With a sigh, Janie headed out the door to Myrna’s house. Upon arriving, Myrna gave her the warmest hug. Feeling obligated, she hugged back. Thinking in her mind, “be normal. Just be normal.”

“Alright, chica, let’s go have some fun”, Myrna excitedly said. They were headed to Grand Prix Race O Rama in Miami. A forty-five minute drive sounded excruciating to Janie. She didn’t want to talk about why she left or how things were living with her father. To her relief, Myrna blasted the stereo, the entire way there.

Once at the fun spot, anxiety and excitement rushed through Janie. Grand Prix had everything fun under one roof. From video games to go cart racing and even some rides. With unlimited money from her mother’s credit card – the night seemed promising. That is when she heard the awful screeching she dreaded. The hand clapping and high pitched bumbling of all her girlfriends she went to school with in past. They gushed over her looks and Janie felt like a celebrity that was bomb rushed by reporters.

Myrna, the most level- headed friend of the bunch, sensed Janie’s tenseness and told everyone to go inside.

Inside, the tone changed. The place was filled with noise from games and music. The intercom boomed with the latest deals. While everyone else seemed like a kid in a candy store, Janie was able to finally breathe. With everyone’s mind occupied with entertainment, which left Janie to explore on her own. Without fail, the girls found her and clung to her hip.

It was at that moment, surrounded by noise, lights, and questions – all seemed to go quiet. Janie had spotted a man that took her breath away. He, like her, was surrounded by hassling friends. They were leaders in their groups but Janie sensed he felt the same as she. Wanting to be free from having to entertain them.

He was gorgeous. Thick dark brown hair and eyes to match. His eyes were the kind Janie could get lost in – so much personality within. She could tell he was from a Latino background, but could not place exactly where. Just looking at him seemed to lessen her anxiety. Janie thought to herself, “no way is he single. He seems to perfect.” With that, Janie lowered her gaze and walked towards the race track – the gabbing girls following.

An hour later, Janie became so consumed in the fun, nothing seemed to matter. While all the girls went to the restroom to replace their makeup, Janie found her favorite game. Mortal Combat. It was an oldie, but a goodie. The only game that required memorizing of codes and applying them to the character. Then, she heard it from behind, the sultriest voice, “Can I get next game against you?”

Janie didn’t have to look – she knew it was the man who made all nonexistent around her.  “Sure, if you are any good”, Janie said coyly. Even his laugh was music to her ears. It was the kind of voice that could make you melt but want to move mountains. Even his smell was kind to her nose. No overwhelming cologne. Just a fresh, crisp delightful smell.

Deliberately, Janie lost the game. He moved beside her and the feeling was as if they were longtime friends. The comfort and ease talking to him while playing the game, came as natural as brushing teeth. It seemed as if the game went on forever. They were both equal in skill. Janie looked up at him and saw how effortlessly he played.

“You must play this game a lot or it comes natural.” Janie said.

He smiled and asked, “Do you want to take a walk? Outside this place?”

It was as if he read her mind. Before Janie knew it, they were outside on a bench. The noises of Grand Prix were far away, but the distance between the two was only fifty yards. The two of them talked – not realizing the time that had gone by. Both their pagers kept going off, but ignored them. Cell phones ringing were ignored, too. It wasn't until the sound of the intercom, asking If Janie and Johnny could come to the front desk, their friends are looking for them, did they stop talking.

Each smiled at one another and at the same time asked, “Is that your name?” Equally laughed, knowing their friends must be beside themselves in a frantic panic.

“How long have we been out here?”

“I don’t know, but we better get in. You think or no, “Johnny asked, squinting a little. Showing he wasn’t too keen on the idea of leaving.

“Let me ask you something”, Janie said playfully, “Why did you ask to take a walk?”

Johnny smiled as if Janie should already know the answer to that question, “Because, I wanted my full attention on you. No distractions. There was no way we would be able to with our friends around. Don’t you agree?”

Janie smiled back and nodded her head yes. As they headed back towards the noise, she knew Johnny’s soul knew hers. It was ironic how all the people she was around seemed strangers but had known since being in diapers, yet being with Johnny had a deep connection which words were not needed. Things were just understood.

Inside, the two groups of friends were standing in the middle of the entrance way. Janie felt the tenseness coming again. Without saying a word, Johnny grabbed her hand. As if to give her strength to face the unknown.

From that moment on, time flew by. Janie only had 3 months to be in Florida. Johnny lived in Miami. The forty-five minute drive back and forth almost every day was nothing for the two that seemed to love one another. They seemed inseparable. If Johnny was at work, Janie was at the beach. No matter how many friends she visited, none of the time with them compared to the hours spent near Johnny. Too many tried flirting with Janie on the beach, but she wasn’t interested. No matter how good looking or how much money – no one compared to Johnny.

He was simple and humble. Come to find out, Johnny had told Janie why he lived in Florida. He, at age 19, was working there to support his sister and mother in New Jersey. Their father died and he was left to be the man of the family. They didn’t want to move, but the money was good in Florida. His heart was kind. It was those things that allowed Janie to trust him. Trust wasn’t easy for her. Being abused and her mother allowing it, had limited how much trust Janie had for people. But with Johnny, none of that mattered.

One day, Janie found out how much the abuse affected her. Johnny was punctual in calling her every day after work. Five Thirty came and went. Next, it was six. By six thirty p.m., Janie laid down and began crying. She didn’t know why. The gut wrenching feeling seemed to consume her entire body. An hour went by after that. It wasn’t until her mother came in and said Johnny was on the phone, did Janie realize she had cried herself to sleep.

“Hi, sweetie. How are you?” Johnny asked sweetly.

The sweetness in his voice seemed to anger Janie. She remained quiet, fearing if she said anything would be cries or words of anger. Johnny begged her to tell her what was wrong. He could sense it. He seemed to sense everything.

Reluctantly, Janie, began speaking, “You didn’t call me. Part of me thought something happened. Then, I thought you didn’t want me anymore. “Janie’s voice became jittery but fluent, “If you don’t want me, then just say it. You don’t have to ignore me. Be a man, and tell me. “

It was at that moment, the words escaped her lips, Janie wished she could take it back because of her tone. She realized how she must sound. “I don’t know why I said..”

Johnny didn’t let her finish, “It’s ok. I’m sorry, I didn’t call. Something happened. Totally crazy and I wasn’t able to use the phone. I was pumping gas and someone drove off, leaving the nozzle still in their car. Gas was all over and cops, ambulance. It was insane. I was there for hours. Then they wanted me to describe the person and wouldn’t let me leave until it was done. Got home, ate, showered, and then called you. Janie, I know your past was bad with your family, but I promise you – I would never hurt you intentionally.”

Janie began to cry a river. So much, she couldn’t breathe. Johnny sat patiently on the phone until it subsided. He kept repeating it will be ok. Janie felt awful. How could she even think anything bad of him. Then,  to speak in such a horrible tone.

“Do you forgive me, “Janie asked, while blowing her nose.

“Janie, there is nothing you can do that would ever make me upset. I love you. I understand you. I know you love me, even though you never say it. You are afraid of loving me since those who loved you, abused you.”

He was right. The phrase, “I love you,” lost meaning long ago. Hearing it from the ones who abused, was hypocrisy at its finest hour. The overwhelming feeling of warmth and safety swept over Janie. She promised from that moment on not to allow her past to represent her present.

Summer came and went. All Janie could think about was how she had to leave Johnny. She didn’t want to. Many arguments exhumed between her parents and she. Her father wanted Janie to finish her senior there, meanwhile her mother was aloof about the entire aspect. Janie’s mother only cared that Johnny wasn’t rich like them. None of that mattered to Janie. She knew Johnny loved her more than anyone would or ever did.

One night, she told Johnny about her plans to run away. She only had a year before turning eighteen and could graduate high school early if she took the tests. Johnny wouldn’t hear of it.

“Janie, you need to go finish school. I didn’t and work like a dog to provide for my family and care for myself. You have so much potential to become something great. Besides, there is this thing called ‘technology’. It helps people stay connected over distance and time.”

Johnny always had a way of putting things in perspective and making her feel secure.

“But, I just want to be with you. I don’t want to leave, but my dad is making me. I know we can talk, but it won’t be the same. I’m afraid that once I go – you will forget about me…about what we have.” Janie’s face didn’t show how she felt – sadness.

“Janie, do you remember the first moment we met? I knew then how I felt. No one mattered but you amongst hundreds. Not my friends I had known for years. Not my past or my burdens. Just knew I must meet the beauty I saw before me. Now that I have, I can never forget. You left an imprint on my heart that no one can remove. Do you understand what I’m saying? I worry more about you feeling that way.”

Later, that evening, Janie and Johnny were at the airport. Sitting there waiting, Johnny cried a little. Janie tried making light of the situation by taking a picture and saying, “Now, here we have a Kodak moment. Strong Johnny crying.” Realizing it was not the time to joke, Janie wiped away his tears. As she looked into his eyes, Einstein’s theory of relativity popped to mind. She finally understood it. Being around Johnny for hours seemed like minutes, awaiting the plane to be away from him seemed hours – even though it was minutes away from happening.

Time went on and Janie and Johnny remained in touch. Even through the distance, they could always feel one another. If something negative was happening – the other would call. Timing seemingly priceless. A year, Janie continued to think, “It’s only a year to be with the love of my life.”

One day, Janie received a phone call from Johnny’s roommate. In a way, she knew it was not good. All day, there had been a feeling of uneasiness and confusion. Her thoughts seemed sporadic. She didn’t know why until she heard Chino’s voice. Her heart dropped to her stomach and a lump seemed caught in her throat. Her body got weak and the room began to spin.

“Janie, this is Chino. Are you sitting down? Please, sit down before I talk.” “I’m sitting”, Janie said sternly.

“Janie…….something happened to Johnny. There was nothing we could do. We were all walking along the strip when out of nowhere a gang war broke out. Many people were shot. This includes Johnny…” Chino’s voice trailed off.

Janie could hear him holding back tears to be strong for her.

“So, he didn’t make it?” Janie asked professionally. “Is there going to be a funeral and where will it be?”

Chino explained that his body was going back home to his mother’s hometown. Offered Janie the information to get ahold of his family. Janie hung up the phone, feeling lost. Or maybe, the news had not sunk in yet. Tears didn’t come and Janie wondered why. All she knew is that never would she attend the funeral and now would be the time to call his mother.

After offering her condolences and hearing all the wonderful things Johnny had told his mother about her, Janie hung up the phone. Feeling numb, she went about her time as if nothing had happened. Days went by, then months. Janie was present in all daily activities, but something was missing. Years went by and always Johnny was present in her mind as if he was by her side. Yet, still – she never cried. One day, in college, Janie had to make a persuasive speech to the class. It was to her final for communications. She decided to persuade people to always go for what they want in life. The story she told was of Johnny and her. Rehearsing the speech, it was at that moment, Janie began to sob.

All the feelings of love that was known through Johnny and how he treated her. How angry she was that someone, out of carelessness for life, took the life of her beloved. How the one person in the world who understood her, was no longer around. All those feelings of loss had her crying. With all her tears, Janie could have filled a small river. The ache she felt the day Johnny didn’t call her right after work, was the same one that crept up and grabbed ahold now. Curling into a ball, Janie fell asleep.

In her dream, Johnny appeared. He stood behind her, as he had awaiting to play the game at Grand Prix. Even his voice was the same when he spoke -sultry, “Janie, don’t be upset. Do not look at what you have lost, but what you have gained. See my death, but don’t wallow in it. Celebrate the time in which I was there. I love you.”

Within moments, Janie awoke. Still feeling as if the dream was reality. Maybe the dream was her subconscious. Maybe it was truly him coming through to that other realm scientists cannot completely explain. Whichever it was, didn’t matter. The words were truth.

Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”


*TW Profanity* I had never imagined my life like this. Looking around in an overstuffed storage locker at the odd collection of things that had represented my journey. No, pictures, no accolades, nothing to suggest that I had even existed. At 32 years old, every artifact in my life was a lifeless piece of junk. Just another meaningless entry into the diary of an invisible man. This was never my intention. There once was a time where many around me would have imagined that I would excel socially, and wind up successful. I was certainly smart enough. It was my internal turmoil that anchored me down to my lot in life. Those people who set their definition of who I was, had based their perception of me on a hand crafted lie. Though I had a strong social game, that's all it ever felt like to me a game. For most of my life I had worn a mask designed to fit in. I don't feel like that's uncommon as children on their way to adulthood, as at one point or another we are all looking for our place in the world. For me however, that practice transcended simple youthful angst. It became a mantra, a survival mechanism. My brilliant mind worked overtime convincing myself that no one would like the real me. And so, my life became a game of charades. Everywhere I went, I was someone else, with a different background. Every version of me was just another character, born from a clever combination of bits of truth, and traits I wish I represented. I would be lying if I said that this practice of self-deception didn't earn me a lot of attention, but as I would soon learn later on, it would never last. I began clearing my way through the rubble of the ruins of my life, looking for the divorce papers that I had been meant to sign years ago. I don't know why I hadn't signed them yet. We had been separated for five years. She wanted to get married again, so there was a sense of urgency to get this final tie cut. I wasn't emotional about it; it was good riddance as far as I was concerned. While I was away working, desperately trying to pay the massive bills she incurred, she had done what she always did. Made an impulsive decision to sleep with some random guy she met on Tinder. It wasn't the first time, but this one came with consequences in the form of pregnancy. As if that wasn't bad enough, she then attempted to lie about it for months. When the truth finally came out, she said, and I quote, " Well I know that deep down inside you really love me, and that you'll do the right thing and help me raise this child and treat it like your own." She was wrong on all counts of that. But it's not like I didn't at least consider it. I obviously loved her, but some betrayals are simply too much to sweep under the rug, as was my general nature. Practically I knew it wouldn't be fair to the child. All I would ever be able to see it as is some other's guys fuck trophy. There was no question that I would resent it, and that's no way to raise a child. It wasn't its fault, so to burden it with my internal lament over its existence just to stay attached to something I loved would be selfish on my part. So, I did the sensible thing, and I walked away. Of course, I couldn't help feeling just a bit jaded that Rebecca managed to find someone to love her again and marry her, that someone like her, who was capable of such great emotional violence and volatile impulses could get a happily ever after, while I lamented in my own torment. But such is the game of life, it does not play fair. As I dug through yet another layer of junk, I found the suit I had worn to my senior prom hanging on an old coat rack in the far-left corner of the unit. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, as it had remained there for so long that I had forgotten its existence. It was a welcome sight as it brought back warm memories of the girl I should have married. Christin was a beauty. She had pale freckled skin, and dark, curly hair. Her smile and laugh could light up any room. There is no person on this planet who has stopped my heart so completely like she did the first time I saw her. There was this aura about her, when I was with her it felt like she was the only person in the world that actually saw me. I felt complete when I was with her. I suppose all young lovers probably feel that way the first time, but I still feel that same exact way when I speak to her today. Of course, she is married to another man with two beautiful children, but it doesn't change how I feel. My biggest regret was letting her walk away. But I was different then, less at peace with my internal monologue. I was accustomed to washing the bitter taste of my demons out with a double shot of whiskey and whatever else I could get my hands on. She was the first casualty of the constant war inside my mind that I've been cursed with since birth. When I think of her, I often ponder the age-old philosophical question of whether it truly was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. As I worked my way laterally across the back wall of my storage shed, I came across an old dusty box. It was tattered and well worn. My curiosity compelled me to pick it up and perch it on the top of a black faux marble end table from my first solo apartment circa 2008. I opened it up and pulled out an old blue baby blanket, thinly worn with small holes that somehow gave it character. Underneath the blanket sat a pair of baby OshKosh B'gosh overalls. I immediately recognized these from my kindergarten picture day. Back when I had a full head of rusty-red hair, before it turned dark brown (and eventually all fell out.) I couldn't help but smile at the memories. I enjoyed a good childhood for the most part, after my father was out of the picture. My mother worked a lot, often leaving my brother and I in the hands of our grandparents. My grandmother was the typical old school religious granny. She was always there for a warm hug, and every holiday was welcomed in by the smell her baking her patented banana bread, accompanied by the gift of hand-knitted slippers in any color we asked. As we get older, it’s the simple things we miss the most. My grandfather, Raymond, AKA "The King," AKA "The Champ of Seven Cities" AKA several other ridiculous monikers he bestowed upon himself, was truly the glue that held our family together. He loved mischief and winding us up as children. He would often show up at our house unannounced with bags of toys for us to play with. He was funny, and warm, and people naturally gravitated towards him. I think that's where that quality in myself had come from. I didn't realize until I was older just how unhappy he was. This was on full display when at 70 years old he left my grandmother for another woman in a move that shattered my once airtight family. I understand him better now, I think. He just wanted to be happy, and he sacrificed that happiness for the sake of other people his entire life. At 70 he took his shot. I can only hope that when he died, he at least passed on holding a piece of the happiness he sought in his heart. The aftermath was the beginning of the end for my family. Everyone picked sides, aunts and uncles became distant strangers, and life changed at a rapid pace. My brother went off to college and became a doctor, but not the kind that helps people. Probably for the best, because he's the smartest human I know, but he has the bedside manner of a turnip. He's always prided himself on being the smartest guy in the room, and it makes him unbearable in social situations. Of course, I had seen him probably once in the last 5 years, so he could've changed. My mom grew very sad and distant, as my brother and I both focused on our careers, and somehow forgot about the woman who sacrificed everything for us. I have since rectified that to the best of my ability, but he has remained at arm’s length. All of these events transpired in my mid-20's, and that's when I began to change. I stopped feeling. Even when I tried to connect emotionally with another person, there was a razor-sharp knife hidden in my mind that would sever any hint of emotional connection. It took the form of a little voice that whispered "they don't really like you. They just want something from you. Even if they don't, it won't last. Nothing lasts forever, remember?" So, I untethered myself from humanity, and I just simply existed. I floated around just hoping to float somewhere that would make me feel, but to no avail. I have always been an "all or nothing" with my love type of guy. After years of expending all my love on people and places that always ended up disappointing me, my default setting had turned to "nothing." I stopped being social, I focused on my work, in many ways I gave up on the world. I stopped going on sets, I switched to working remotely, strictly as a writer, and I disappeared from relevance. In every photo that was snapped of me, I saw nothing but the ugly I had become. Crooked teeth, overweight, bald. A far cry from what I used to be. So, I made the photographers delete the pictures, and eventually I stopped taking them at all. The snowball effect had led to self-inflicted isolation. It's ironic that in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy, the loneliness I endeavored to stave off has ended up consuming me in a living, breathing coffin. I placed the clothing back in the box and returned it to its concrete home. I located the old leather laptop bag I had been looking for and retrieved the divorce papers. I quickly fished a pen out of my shirt pocket and signed it right there and then. As I took one last look around the storage shed, I caught the reflection of myself in an old standing mirror. I looked haggard, and tired, with grey hairs spouting in all directions off my sea captain like beard. I sighed as a sad realization suddenly dawned on me. Everyone who once knew me, knew me no more. There was nothing in this room that tied any of this to me without direct access to my personal memories. I had become a prisoner of my own mind, and it had driven me into the depths of madness, so far down that no one could see. I knew that one day it would take me under, there was no doubt. And this storage locker would just become a trove a meaningless junk to whomever purchased it. There would be no horcrux here that haunted this room with my essence. On that day I would be wiped from existence in perpetuity, and that was saddening beyond words. I finished scribbling my winding thoughts on a piece of parchment and placed the paper down on an old wooden chest. One day these ramblings of an unstable mind will be all that remains of my time on this spinning rock. I had done my best, but it was never quite good enough. TL;DR -The Invisible Man-


In an ocean of starlight, on an ancient wooden rowboat stained with centuries of service, we sail in solitude through the night sky, towards the After. There is no scenery here. No mountains to frame the world, nor seas to divide it. The rower drives an ore into the shadows and ink laps against the sides. On this final voyage, conversation does not flow as freely as the water in which it takes place. The passenger usually studies the stars in silent contemplation, while the rower rows. Eventually, an invisible milestone is spotted amongst the shadows and the ore is lifted. The boat lulls idle for a moment, before being swept by the current, evermoving to the After. “Not far now,” the ferryman’s voice is hoarse. “I s’pose you already know what you’re doing here.” I nod. “And where you’re off?” I nod again. The ferryman, a cloaked figure around the height of a small tree, takes a seat on the bench across from me. Their countenance is disfigured by shadows, but the reflections of starlight reveal a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles. “I must warn you; I’ve been doing this job for a while, and I’ve seen all sorts of things. You try to jump, try to swim, try anything, you’ll soon regret it. Anything but complete obedience won’t be tolerated. Is that clear?” I nod. “Good. Now, I’ve no interest in introductions. You do this as long as I have, and you’ll have heard every name in the book. I do have something to share with you, though.” I flick my gaze from the sea. The ferryman is a strange creature of abstract shape and shifting size, though its discernable head and shoulders and general silhouette resemble that of a human and do little for its divinity. Beneath the cloak could be my grandmother, withered and frail, or my brother, who stood at six feet, four inches in his youth. “On the way to the After, everybody is offered the chance to relive a single memory. In this memory, you can do and say whatever you like. You’re no longer bound by the laws of time and objective reality, but there are three rules,” the ferryman says. I expect a wave of dread, of sorrow, of regret for the opportunities that passed by like ships in the night. Instead, an aching absence. “Most people use their memory as a chance to say goodbye, let someone know that they’re not coming back. Others use it to speak with a loved one that they haven’t seen for some time. Last week, a boy took his dog for one last walk…” the ferryman’s shoulders drop, and they sniff a breath. “You can also use it to fix a mistake. Right some wrongs. It’s a lot easier to get into the After with a clear conscience, believe me.” “The rules?” I ask. “Oh, the rules. Yes, the rules,” the ferryman remarks. “The first rule is that it must be a true memory. Number two, you can’t do anything world shattering. If your memory is a tour of the White House and you fancy pressing the big red button, you won’t be accepted into the After. Clear?” I nod. “The last one,” they sigh and study the ripples that the boat creates on the water as it passes through. “You can’t stay.” The ferryman says. “At some point, you’ll return here. No matter what. The second your mind departs from that moment, you’ll come straight back to the boat. Just…” They pause and nod their head, “try to enjoy it.” The ferryman reaches their arms across the length of the boat and a hand emerges from either sleeve. I take them in mine. The ferryman has rough palms, birthed from centuries of labour and love for this strange sailboat on a strange sea. “So, where you headed?” “The beach,” I hear myself say. “In Barcelona. The sun is setting, and my feet are bare in the sand, and jazz music is pouring from the windows of a nearby cocktail bar, and she is there, and I have her hand in mine, and…” My words ebb away and the sweet scent of suncream and freshly cooked seafood surfaces. I press my eyes closed. Hot sand singes my heels and beads of sticky sweat pool on the collar of my linen shirt. The scaly hand in mine is now soft and plump and cool. I trace her varnished fingernails with the tip of my thumb, and then her knuckles and the veins protruding on the top of her hand, and I am reminded that this is false. She is not real. She is not here. She is at home, hopefully asleep in her bed, with the electric blanket on and a dog-eared book on the nightstand, waiting for a phone call to tell her that I had to stay at the office, once again, and that I am on my way home. And then she squeezes my hand. “What are you doing?” She asks. I keep my eyes closed out of fear. “Babe?” “Just walking.” I manage. “Open your eyes,” a honey-sweet giggle rolls through her – I could drink the sound. “Look, the sun’s setting.” I peel them open. Vibrant daylight fills my head and, in being blinded by the sun for the final time, I am reminded of my agonizing reality. But, as the glare fades and my vision clears, she comes into focus. A captivating beauty crafted with wild locks spun from onyx, sapphire eyes peppered with starlight, and round cheeks so full of life. A delicate breeze catches her hair and, on its passing, delivers the light aroma of her perfume. I let it surround me and inhale enough that a whisper of the scent nestles within the crevice of my mind. I make a mental note to use sparingly. She slows her steps and I stop. I remember what happened here, she asked me to stay and watch the sunset, but I wanted to go back to the room and get ready for dinner. “Let’s stop here for a moment,” I say, before she gets the chance. “Watch the sunset with me?” Her face illuminates. We lower ourselves onto the sand and she lays down, resting her head on my lap. I should have stayed. Sunlight bleeds into the ocean, staining the sky with scarlet streaks, and another day is stolen by the horizon. Violet blooms in the absence of the sun as the embers of its dying light are swept away with the current. I can feel my mind slipping, as though the After has wrapped a wire around my thoughts and is starting to pull. I dip my finger into the cooling sand and write ‘STAY’. “What do you want to do tonight?” she sits up and asks as dusk sets in. Tonight . The word twists my stomach and I long for the absence of feeling once more. Tonight. We went to a restaurant and then to bed. She finished reading her book and I had another late night at the office. “We can think about that later, let’s just stay here for a while longer. Let time pass.” How much time? Not enough. Never enough. I reach for her hand and pull it up to my mouth, grazing her knuckles with my lips and gripping. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe this will become real or maybe I will wake from a terrible dream and she will be lay beside me, her sleeping face illuminated by strips of moonlight peering between the gaps in the blinds. The silhouette of her hips will be cast on the wall and she will have the entire duvet pulled to her side, but it would be okay, I would let her keep it. I place a delicate kiss on each finger and then the back of her hand and her wrist and the inside of her elbow. I stroke my hand against her cheek and brush a kiss on both eyelids. She breathes a laugh against my skin and every hair stands to attention. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I follow her lead, barely touching my lips to the base of her neck and drinking in her cherry-cola perfume. After some time, she pushes me away with a smirk and a raised brow. She stands over me and brushes the sand from her shorts. I push myself up and hold my hand in hers. She slips her fingers between mine and we walk along the sea, our path illuminated by distant streetlights that line the nearby promenade. The sea is in slumber now, and reflected on its ripples is the glow of a full moon. Her eyes study the coast. What thoughts does it conjure in her wonderful mind? She once told me that her thoughts appeared in colour, rather than an internal voice. It must have been lonely, I used to think. Having since visited a place so absent from colour, sailed on an ocean of black, I now realise that we who think in words are the lonely ones. “So…” she says, though her mind is elsewhere. “Have you thought about what we’re doing tonight?” That invisible wire tugs again and my mind drifts. Our time together is coming to an end and the hole where my heart should be throbs. I prepare for a tsunami of thoughts, but nothing comes. The steady thrum of her heart beats through her hand against my palm. I search for something to say. Anything. I try to form the words ‘I love you’, attempt to describe just how beautiful she is, warn her of the accident and prepare her heart for the impending news. I breathe a tentative breath and consider a goodbye, and then I envision her eyes darkening and her cheeks sinking and her mind becoming plagued with the same voice that infects everybody else’s. She is untouched by death. She has no pain lingering in the shadows, nor a heavy heart brimming with grief ready to overflow at any given moment. I could never do that to her. To say goodbye now would be to stain the rest of her life with a minute, almost undetectable speck of black. “You once asked me, if my life was a painting, what colours would be in the palette.” I say, finally. She turns, her brows furrowed. “I remember.” “Well, the palette would be made up entirely of—” My mind flashes with shadows of memories. No. No. No. All of the late nights at the office. A blonde one with long legs. A green-eyed one with auburn hair. A short one with tanned skin. And I am transported back to the boat. Her hands are no longer in mine and her face is nowhere to be seen, but the scent of her perfume lingers.