A Sound Like Rain

She had spent all day making the preparations. This was no small occasion. Would four bags of ice be enough, she wondered? Should she have gotten five? No, four would be plenty. She was not going back out to get more. The sun would be setting soon. It was almost time. She lit the candles. First, the large lavender one, then, the tea lights. Four bags of ice would be enough.

She loved the subtle smell of lavender. It calmed her in uncomfortable situations. This was not uncomfortable. She stared at the purple, painted mirror. Purple made her feel at ease. The faint smell of lavender seeped into her nose. She inhaled its subtle sweetness.

The bottle of Beaujolais she opened to let breathe sat on the counter, a glass next to it. She poured. Not a drop spilled. She held the glass to her nose and let the aroma blend with the lavender and drank.

She loved wine, especially French wine; she loved anything French. She had never been to France but dreamed of it. Often she would imagine sitting at a little table in a Parisian café, watching the passersby speaking that beautiful, poetic language. She knew some. She taught herself what she could. She feared that if she went the dream would slip away; the idea of it replaced by a fading memory.

Next to the bottle of wine sat The Sun Also Rises. It was one of her favorites. It comforted her like an old friend. The cover torn off and the pages bent. She had read it so many times in waiting rooms. Thoughts of matadors and Spanish countryside made her happy. She imagined Spain the same way she imagined France, a pristine reverie not to be muddled by memory.

The sun began to set, and as its light faded, the soft glow of the candles grew brighter. The lavender, more accentuated. The wax melting. The ice still cold. She poured more wine. This time several drops spilled onto the coverless book. The burgundy droplets were absorbed by the weathered page. It looked beautiful to her. A soft smile grew on her face as she caressed the new stains on the old book. She tried to see the beauty in almost everything.

Something was missing. She had to decide. She bit her lower lip and paused. Her lip slipped from between her teeth into a semi-smile as she heard Le Fille Aux Cheveux de Lin began to play. She set it to repeat, turned to close the door – no, how did she forget that one? The reflection in the mirror starred at her. She hesitated, then undid her robe and let it fall to the floor. She closed her eyes and touched her head. Her hand moved down to her chest. Her eyes opened and a tear fell out. It ran down her cheek. She wiped it off and took a deep breath.

“No more tears,” she said.

She took the mirror down from the door and turned it around. It was time.

It felt cold. She held it firm between her finger and thumb. It was colder than the ice. A shiver ran through her body. It fell to the floor like a steel leaf. Sanguine tears ran down her fingers and hit the tile, making a sound like rain. Her eyes felt heavy. She saw the bottle and the book in the fading light; she smelled the lavender and wine; she heard the music soften with each note. A feeling of warmth engulfed her in the sea of tiny glaciers.

A smile.

No more tears.