You come home and sit in my chair, fingers running over cracks in the leather. Tracing the doodley pen marks that swirl across the chair’s arms. Blemishes I refused to patch over with that silly color-matching kit you bought, because covering the damage doesn’t make it go away. That’s not how it works.
You look strange in that funeral suit, your hair too slick, your tie too tight. My legs now a wisp of memory, I stand by while you stare at the empty room. I hope you let someone hug you at my wake.
The phone buzzes again, but you leave it on the bedside table. The curtains stay drawn. You’re still wearing the same stained Chewbacca t-shirt.
You move only as far as the fridge before returning to my chair. Watching those silly ghost-hunting shows, you cackle at their theatrical antics until the TV asks if you’re still there, then turns itself off. The room is dark, your can of wine empty.
My absent fingers twitch as you pick at the cracks in the arm of my chair. Dry leather folds back to reveal soft, discolored innards.
You finally go to work. It’s probably harder than I imagine. Co-workers trapping you in corners, hurling sympathies at you until they feel better.
I wait in the apartment, listening without ears for your key in the lock.
You come home and toss your bag on the floor, daring me to scold you for the mess. Daring me to move your bag myself. I’m sorry, babe. It doesn’t work that way.
Without eyes I see your defiance. Your posture is stiff, like the time I invited your parents to dinner without telling you; your face pained, like the time you nearly cut your thumb off while prepping a stir fry. If I had hands, I’d forget the bag and caress your cheek, give your trembling shoulder a squeeze.
The doorbell rings. It’s Jude and Thea, and two people I don’t know. You invite them in. Jude’s eyes are shifty, Thea laughs too much. They’re nervous.
You push my chair to the wall. Everyone sits on the floor. The one in flowy skirts pours sand in circles and lines across the carpet, and the one with a skeleton barrette lights candles. A seance? Was this Thea’s idea? We can’t afford this.
The chanting begins. Huffs and moans disturb thin swirls of candle smoke. Then come messages in super-fake voices; words you know I’d never say. Thea cries. You don’t.
They leave, dust-bustering their magic sand on the way out. In a blink you’re alone, we’re alone, again.
You rouse to the alarm, shower and dress. Sit at the table and stare at your microwaved oatmeal. I should have taught you how to make the good stuff on the stove. You call in to work with a lame excuse. How many sick days do you have left?
Stalking the apartment like a caged thing, you circle my chair, pass the covered window, and pause at my side of the bed before burning that circuit again, and again. Without feet, I keep your pace.
A package arrives from some big-box place. You peel away the plastic and lay the Ouija board on the table, place the triangle do-hickey thing on top, then go to the stove to make tea. Waiting for the pot to whistle, you side-eye the toy on the table. I lecture without a voice at this absurd idea. At this completely silly, completely sweet idea.
Tea in hand, you light the peppermint-scented candle you found in the holiday décor drawer and sit before the board. You even lay your fingers on the triangle do-hickey. Three on each side, like they do in all those movies about the damned.
Motionless, you stare, until you remove your hands. Because of course. You know that’s not how this works.
The bedroom curtains are open, which I guess is a small kind-of step. Moonlight ventures in, searching for something, anything, to brighten. You sit at my desk, my favorite pen in your hand.
Your thumb clicks the pen’s little tabs one at a time, changing the color. Blue to red, red to black, black to green. Dust drifts from my doodle pad when you open the cover. Testing the pen, you make a line in black. A circle in red. A few blue flourishes here and there, then add green eyes and a funny-angled nose.
Did you smile, just then, at your silly doodled creature, like you used to smile at mine?
I sink into the pen as it meets paper again. I sink into your hand as you doodle on, my future nestled within the lovely little drawings, made abstract when met with your tears.
About the author:
A. Katherine Black adores multicolored pens, long winters, and her overworked coffee machines. She lives in the Northwoods with her family and their cats, where she dreams up stories of creatures with bunches of legs, tentacles, and wings. Find her at flywithpigs.com.
Find A. Katherine Black:
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Mastadon: @akatherineblack@wandering.shop
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