A Kindness
"Who are you, and why are you here?"
"Oh, now. Save some questions for later, dear."
She furrowed her brow and regarded the stranger warily. She hadn't the energy to argue.
"Settle in, love. We have plenty of time to chat."
He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a black suit. Cufflinks shimmered silver as he settled himself on the only available seat in the room. Perfectly pressed, a pristine white shirt contrasted with his black silk tie. He spoke with a smooth baritone Transatlantic accent more at home in a Gary Cooper film than in current day, but somehow, it seemed perfect.
He smiled warmly, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands on a knee.
"So you're here to watch? Did the hotel manager let you in?"
He 'tutted.' "Still so many questions. Some things just are. You'll soon learn that's been much of the truth in this world."
She wanted to yell at the man, to scream at him to leave her in peace, give her privacy, preserve her dignity. She wanted to be angry at his invasion, but couldn't.
Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit coat, he pulled out a cigarette case. It was ornate, as old as black and white newsreels, with a lighter built into one end.
"Do you mind?" He asked almost as an afterthought, but his face was sincere.
She managed a weak chuckle. "Secondhand kills, man." Her laughter echoed off clean tiles and wet porcelain.
Patiently, he regarded her. His gaze traveled up and down her nudity, lingering not where she'd expect; his dark eyes demanded hers connect with him.
Feeling almost ashamed for not directly answering his question, she smiled nervously. A nod gave him permission, and he whispered a thank you.
She attempted humor again. "Might as...might as well. I'll be losing the deposit on this suite anyway." Her laughter was weaker, but it was deep and true.
He managed a small laugh along with her as he took his first puffs.
"Oh, you're probably right, hon. I'm afraid that ship has sailed. I suspect the lingering scent of a Nat Sherman won't matter, considering the circumstances."
"Who is Nat Sherman?"
The man laughed. "Oh, Babs. Just relax. It's a kind of cigarette. Even I can be permitted a vice, don't you think? I just prefer them, is all. It doesn't matter."
No one had called her Babs since she was a little girl. A stray memory flashed behind her eyes, and she stared off at the swirls of smoke making their way towards the ceiling. Her father, home from the war. Most of him died without a funeral along the Mekong, but his body was whole. He withered on the vine, one Winston at a time, but it wasn't the cancer that killed him.
It was life, and he eventually had enough.
"Apples and trees fall," she slurred.
"Thinking of your father, hon?"
That word again. 'Hon'. This man had used several similar terms, and ordinarily, they'd infuriate her.
But he meant them.
She didn't recognize this gentleman, but she felt like she knew him. There was a warmth and kinship, like a relative she'd met and not seen in years. It was an odd thing to feel about the stranger sitting beside her on this second-most important of days in her life.
Babs struggled to focus. He had kind eyes. Nonjudgmental. Knowing.
"I want one."
He laughed again, and it lifted her spirits to hear such glee.
"All the years you've lived, never touching the things. Are you sure?"
Blinking away the fog that had settled in her brain, she nodded. "Why not, right? Time isn't exactly...." On my side is what she meant to finish, but she didn't verbalize it. She was struggling to chase thoughts and turn them into words.
She reached towards the gentle man, holding out her hand for one of his cigarettes.
"Oh, no, dear. I'll do it for you. I'm afraid you'd just fumble around and drop it. Besides, be mindful of the mess you're making."
She slid her arm back into the bathwater's embrace. For the first time, she noticed that her fingers had gone numb.
He leaned over, placing a fresh smoke between her lips. With a flourish and a flare, flame was provided.
He had to remind her to inhale to catch fire to the tobacco.
Warmth traveled into her lungs; almost immediately, she felt the tingle and rush of her first-ever nicotine buzz.
"Wow."
"Oh, it doesn't last for you all. It just becomes more of a habit than a pleasure, after a while."
Muttering around the filter, she said "Like breathing." Liebreeth
"Oh, child. Sometimes I think you're right."
"What about the ashes?" She tried to ask. What she actually said was more like Whabah aha. Thoughts were difficult. Words were hard. A charred rope dangled from the end of white paper in one corner of her mouth.
He didn't need a translation. He never did; languages were no barrier for him.
"Just let them fall away, Babs. Just let it all fall away."
He regarded her kindly as she lost the struggle to keep open her eyes. The rise and fall of breathing slowed.
Gently, he pulled the cigarette from her lips and let it fall into the water. As it hissed, he took a final drag on his own. He flicked it into the tub as he stood.
Straightening his tie, he spoke softly to the woman now hovering in the doorway.
"Babs, my dear. Let's get you to your father, shall we?"
She tried to peer around him, but he put firm hands on her shoulders.
"Sweetie. You don't want to see that. It isn't you. Not anymore."
"Oh, god. Oh, god. I did it. I really did it this time."
"Hush, now. Hush. Yes. You did it. But now I'm here to take you home. Everything will be fine."
"I thought someone would come. I thought you were here to stop me!"
Tears streamed down her face as she looked pleadingly into the man's eyes. She no longer tried to stare around him at her body lying in crimson water.
His warmth helped calm her.
"No, baby. I don't stop anyone. Or ride a pale horse. I only come when it's time. You were ready, so, for you, I'm a kindness. Believe me. I am seldom a welcome guest, so this has been a treat," He brushed the back of his hand lighlty against her cheek, wiping away tears. "Come, now. Let me take you Home."
She nodded. Taking her by the hand, he led her through a flash of light that was a doorway to ever after.
August 31st
Two years ago,
This was the happiest I had ever been.
Your voice on the other end of the phone, promising me we would try.
That I was worth trying for.
We could have conquered Everest that day, the smiles never once leaving our faces.
How lucky I was to be so in love with my best friend, and to be loved so fully it felt like my heart had never once felt anything other than pure unbridled joy.
One year ago,
I woke up in tears, accompanied by shallow breaths and the overwhelming feeling that I was drowning. It would only be three days until I saw you, and it would be the first time since we broke up. I had no idea it’d be the last for a full calendar year. My heart broke for you every day. I was impulsive, scared, and without my best friend for the first time in what felt like forever.
Today, I don’t know.
We once again, got off the phone, you were adamant that this was the last time we would do this. While I grasped at straws hoping to whatever cosmic entity governs us all, that you were wrong. It would have been our two year anniversary today. We’ve spent two years falling in love and fighting off fears. I guess we just didn’t try hard enough. I don’t know if there’s blame to lay, I don’t know what I could have done to be better for you, I don’t know what you could have done to ease the fear gnawing on your mind. All I do know, is August 31st hurts. In all the best ways.
Maybe one day, it won’t.
Maybe one day I’ll be worth trying for again.
Maybe once I board that plane or get another impulsive tattoo I’ll be too far gone for you to care.
Two year from now, I hope you’re doing well, and that you’ll maybe be thinking of me.
Can’t be bothered
Interesting, isn’t it?
How I stopped writing songs
The day I learned to hum your tune.
How my rhymes didn’t matter,
When everything you were eclipsed me.
So strange,
How I managed to lose myself
In someone I swore
Gave me everything.
So odd,
You can’t be bothered to write,
Yet I am made of poetry
Begging to be written by your hands.
One cream, no sugar
I made a cup of coffee that morning. My eyes followed the cream as it swirled around in the mug. It seemed to resist mixing with the dark liquid in which it was placed. I imagined the cream was having a crisis about becoming part of a larger beverage – my coffee – rather than continuing on as its own entity; I empathized with it. I probably stared at the coffee too long as it was cold by the time I snapped out of it. But when it was finished I poured another cup of coffee, added the cream, watched it, etc. I think I repeated this motion four times, or six, or eight. I’m not really sure, but I do know that four and a half hours passed in this haze, and by the time I remembered the funeral, I had missed it.
I decided to walk to the grave site. It was only a few blocks from my apartment, across from my local church. I figured that since I had already missed the funeral there would be no harm in stalling a little longer, and so Instead of finding the headstone, I crossed the street. A church was the perfect place to deny reality, after all. For both the obvious reason, and the fact that time seems to halt within a church. People enter and exit all day, but nothing ever really happens. People can sit, and think, and pray, and talk to their hearts content, but after they leave the church will always be the same as it was before they entered. Some may say that they are stagnant or boring, but on this particular afternoon it was nothing less than complete bliss.
No one bothered me as I entered, and no one acknowledged me as I sat in one of the center pews, which was ideal. I didn’t really pray, and I didn’t really think about anything either, but I felt this was a safe place to return to my haze. This time it seemed to welcome me even more quickly. I stared at the cross, and Jesus’ dying body as I floated somewhere between wakefulness, and unconsciousness. By the time I snapped out of it, light no longer shone through the stained glass that surrounded me, and I decided I could delay it no longer.
I walked from the church, and swiftly across the street. The cemetery was small and contained fewer than thirty headstones, and so it was no arduous task to find the newest one. Sitting more or less in the middle, made of black marble, with the dirt in front of it still churned and chocolatey, it read: Here lies Harold Story 1989-2016. I sat in front of it, letting the dirt ruin my pants, and I waited until I heard the footsteps behind me.
“Have you delayed long enough?” The voice rang out, kind but firm. “It is rare someone manages this long.”
“I just wish they could have found something to write upon it, y’know?” I said, sort of to the entity behind me, sort of to no one, and I began to weep, “Caring friend, community leader, I know they aren’t true, but my god, something. No one deserves a blank tombstone.”
“You did, Harold,” the voice replied, its kindness gone, and I sniffled, understanding that it no longer mattered. I felt a strong hand grip my collar, and drag me backwards, through the cemetery, into the darkness, and away.