It’s a Tuesday when he wakes up and he realizes he is very much alone. The window, left open during the night, lets in a cool breeze and it ripples the Moroccan scarf she hung there many months ago. He glances around the room and he sees that the silver backed hairbrush that belonged to her mother is missing. The jade elephant is not on the windowsill. The rosary beads aren’t hanging from the mirror. There is no sinking feeling in his stomach, there are no tears. Goosebumps rise on his bare arms and suddenly he knows. He doesn’t need to check the closet for her clothes or the bathroom for her toothbrush. She’d have left those without a second glance. But the silver backed hairbrush is not on the dresser and the jade elephant is not on the windowsill and the rosary beads are missing from their usual spot on the mirror and that is how he knows.
*
He used to wear matching socks, pulled tight and folded over once at the top (so as not to make his pant legs look thick at the bottom). Now he doesn’t even own any socks that match. His socks and her socks are in the same drawer. He thrusts in a blind hand, searching in the dark for any loose sock. He pulls on a pair without folding them once; sometimes they overlap his pant legs, bunching at the bottom. Next he makes his way through the maze of books around the bedroom, stacks of old books, new books, classics, obscure novels and, above all, children’s books. She treasures them, but the bookcase is broken (his fault) so she has them stacked wherever she can fit them. Since he quit his job he spends his days book hunting for her. His newest—probably his best ever find—is waiting for her on the table, a hard cover first edition of Antoine De Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Prince. He knows her just enough that he can predict her reaction; she’ll lazily look the book over, feigning mild interest, then she’ll cut the act and fall giddily into his arms. Sitting at the table, waiting and scratching the scruff on his cheeks (she says it will stop itching if he just waits a little longer), he is holding his breath with excitement. In the second before the lock clicks and the doorknob turns he realizes: he’s never been this happy before.
*
At this hour—at this moment—everything seems of the utmost importance. From his position on the floor he can see the light from the refrigerator, open and forgotten. It casts odd shadows across her back. The expiration date on the carton of milk is November twenty-third, but the milk is on the floor now. He wants to lick it up like a cat. The red and grey streaks slicing through the once blank canvas do not make him feel better. He’s suffering from sericulture. The clock is ticking faster than usual and he opens his mouth, a scream behind his teeth. Her hands covers his questions, her emotionless face dismantles him.
“Words are words,” she mutters restlessly. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
“You are a moth.”
“You are a moth.”
“I am not sorry.”
She knows. He knows. A strange tomorrow crosses his mind and he wonders if she’ll stay.
*
It was Sunday but she was Tuesday. This she told him as they walked out of the museum, between the columns. He had known her for only a moment and now she was grasping his arm; his suit jacket crinkled beneath her fingers. He’d spent almost a week planning this day, going over it in his head what he would say and what he would do. He’d had his suit pressed and dry-cleaned and now he was leaving this day behind, letting her wrinkle his suit jacket as she pulled him alongside her to somewhere else. He could tell that she was the kind of girl who’s wildly infuriating. He was the kind of boy who’s wildly excited by this.
*
The needle slips off the edge of the record, bringing him back. Newly grown stubble on his chin is like sandpaper against her shoulder as he burrows deeper into the covers, deeper against her. Her arms stretch backward, knocking him away and colliding with the jade elephant on the windowsill, just above her head. Her nightslip is threadbare—second skin. Last night he dipped his fingers in the melting candle wax; this morning wax fingers crumble as they trace the curve of her hip. She lets the needle go, knowing right where her favorite is. The piano lulls him back into a sleepy state as she sings along. She tells him to melt her down, to pin her in. He tries to comply, but he doesn’t know exactly what she means. Secretly, she’s telling him her plan, once I wanted you to be…to be… With one drawn out breath, words escape her. They fall back asleep wrapped together in silk. She dreams of chickens in a coop. He dreams that he is drowning.
*
Things are different now as she puts on the kettle, her hair—her heart—in tangles. She’s done what’s been asked of her. With the utmost love and precision, she has dissected him. She’s removed all the parts of him that never seemed to work just right and replaced them with the best parts of her. This has made him into something new. Not something beautiful, maybe, but he’s not so innocent anymore. He looks at the world with new eyes and sees it’s ugly. The problem is, she gave him too many parts of her and now she feels half empty, just farfetched dreams and knobby kneecaps. She’s been through hell and high tide, destruction and the calm that comes before and after. She has been through death (her poor girls) and rebirth and all that has left her reeling. He still pulls her close at night, but something is different and the shrieking of the kettle brings her back to the kitchen, damp with mold and forgotten poems.
*
There’s paint under his fingernails and a ring at the bottom of the coffee mug. He never thought of himself as an artist. He said he wouldn’t mind trying it out, shrugging as he was apt to do now. The next day there was a blank canvas in the kitchen and a bucket of lime green house paint. A sticky note was stuck to the brand new paintbrush (still wrapped in plastic). All it said was “Try.” Painting came easier to him than anything else he’d ever done. It didn’t have to be perfect. He was finding that out about almost everything. The ring around the bottom of his coffee mug would’ve set him into a rage in the past. Not anymore.
*
She wakes up early to feed the chickens on the roof. He stays in bed, tangled in the silk white sheet—the one with the pink mulberries stitched over it. She calls them her girls as she scatters seed, and clucks her tongue in her mouth. Back inside the tiny room she peels off layers before leaping into bed, spindly arms winding around him and pulling him (pressing him) tight against her.
“You’re in a cocoon,” she says delightedly.
“Not ready for the world,” he mutters.
He shakes his head. No: not ready for the world.
*
Her sunglasses are tinted purple, small and round. They make her look like John Lennon – a little. Her dress is long, down to her ankles. It’s a tint of beige—the local hardware store’s palette might call it “Buttered Toffee”—with tiny blue flowers sprinkled here and there. She wears a heavy coat with fur on the collar and cuffs even in the height of summer. Her bracelets clank noisily together and echo off the frescoed museum walls as she reaches for a plate of assorted meats and cheeses. He can’t tell if she’s a party crasher or someone’s mistress, here to make their ex-wife jealous. All he knows is she definitely doesn’t belong here.
*
For her birthday, he wanted to do something special—but they were low on cash. So, using a child’s craft book as a guide, he fashioned a telescope. It was poorly (but lovingly) made and he knew that she wouldn’t mind the masking tape. He wasn’t very good with his hands. This may have been the first creative thing he’d ever done and he was proud. He carried it up to the roof, empty except for some old potted plants and he pointed it at the stars. It was then that he realized they might be hard to see, what with all the city lights. He was shaking his head at his folly when the door opened and she was standing there, just a wisp of smoke in the cold air. She shook her head, trying to not smile too much as she slid her hand in the pocket of his coat and looked up at him. He knew she would pretend to see the stars even if she couldn’t.
*
He’s painting again. She used to be amazed by him when he stood in front of a blank canvas, eyes closed. She always thought the finished painting was on the inside of his eyelids and that was why he stood there for so long before he began. Because when he started, he couldn’t stop. This time she’s not so amazed. She’s wary and she’s tired from keeping a close eye. There are other things that he can’t stop once he’s started. He paints long streaks of red and grey, and he throws the paintbrush at the canvas—leaving specks and stains of yellow. She’s unsure if he throws the paintbrush in artistic passion or unrestrained rage. She used to tell him that it was the same thing. Purple and yellow fleck his tangled beard.
*
She feeds him words. She shows him her postcards of collages by Rauschenberg, whispers Rimbaud into one ear and Ian Curtis into the other. She feeds him words and he spits them back out as she takes him to places and introduces him to people. She dresses him in silk-spun honesty. She’s exposing him to another world and he doesn’t mind, though sometimes he feels he doesn’t quite fit.
“Not to worry,” she says. “You are a caterpillar now, but just you wait.”
*
He didn’t believe her when she told him she could make him brilliant and wise beyond his years. He had laughed and run his hand over his smooth, clean-shaven face, clearly nervous. She’d been a little tipsy from the champagne at the time, but she meant every word. Out of all the people in that room, she could see he had the most potential. She still thought so. But after all these years she’s standing in the kitchen, suitcase in one hand, cigarette in the other, debating whether or not she should leave.
*
The canvas is no longer blank. Streaks of red and grey crash together in the center of the painting and flecks of yellow and purple follow. He started painting for her, he continued because it became an obsession. It didn’t take her long to learn. A new painting meant another empty bottle of gin, hidden under the kitchen sink. Now that she’s gone he’s unsure of whether or not to go on. But he’s in a suit again, surrounded by all the people he thought he’d left behind. The quiet tinkle of champagne glasses is familiar. He was here for them not so long ago, wanting to impress. Now they’re here for him, marveling, pretentiously claiming to know the rhyme and reason behind the streaks of red and grey. He hopes they’ll tell him, because he can’t remember. He checks his watch. Only an hour left, more because someone will want to talk to him afterward. Where did you get your inspiration from? Then he’ll go home to a coffee stained apartment, to tiles littered with the remnants of his beard, to a crack right down the middle of his bedroom ceiling. He’ll lie on the silk sheets that she had loved so much, but left in the end, and he’ll stare up, wondering when the ceiling cracked. He’d never noticed it before. He might fall asleep or he might just close he eyes and try to remember her voice, softly whispering. Once I wanted to be…to be…
