Stay

He watched her finger the record player before slamming the door open. The music drifted into the bathroom, Simon and Garfunkel reflecting off the tiles like her thoughts reflected in the mirror. Pale tiles—cold tiles, he knew. Not that he could feel them, but the way her teeth clenched and her toes curled must have been from cold instead of grief. They’d never been close enough to grieve for each other.

He watched his wife, watched her with unseeing eyes, unseen. Taking in her details. Those details, the mismatched earrings, the twitching fingers, the watch needing new batteries. She stared at herself in the mirror, meeting her own eyes. Her eyes were dry, very dry, but she breathed in through her nose so abruptly that he reached out to her.

But he’d lost limbs just two days ago, and now he was only a memory in her eyes. He couldn’t reach out to comfort her—not even when he was alive. He watched her as he fingers stopped twitching, and instead curled into a pale fist. Goosebumps climbed up her bare arms. She wore nothing but a tank-top and sweatpants, and with a jerk he realized that those were his sweatpants. As if she knew what he was thinking, her fist suddenly grabbed onto said pants and tore. They flew off, and next came the tank-top. Tearing and tearing and tearing until she stood naked in the mirror, never breaking eye contact with herself, with him.

He’d seen her naked many times before, but never had he seen her so naked. The dry eyes were suddenly not so dry, and he saw his reflection in them. The face that was no longer his face, sunken in death, a frown on his face lower than any frown in life, his cheeks sagging, eyelids sleeping.

The tears fell, and he felt a tug yank him away from the mirror and mismatched earrings and Simon and Garfunkel, away from the cold tiles and broken watch and the goosebumps. He’d never been a good husband, and he’d often left her all alone, silent in a silent house.

But at that moment, when he had no choice but to leave, he found himself wanting to stay.