The cigarette feels stiff. My lips rebel the flame flaring lighter that threatens to burn the brown tip. I press down on the papered nicotine and inhale the smoke from the burnt embered tobacco. My lungs fill and I exhale. I inhale again, a little deeper this time, as if I’m reaching inside the cigarette to pull out every bit of ground plant, satisfying my addiction. I exhale, my nose burning from the mist. Reminds me of a bull breathing in winter.
The phone vibrates, taking me out of my pull. I fumble to catch it, the white smolder still in my mouth, I flip open the device.
A voice on the other end wants to know if I know a Cory…I say yes, why? The voice begins to explain that Cory tripped on the sidewalk while crossing Eighth Street in downtown Boise, Idaho: a freak accident. He shouldn’t have died, the voice said, he didn’t hit his head very hard. It was only a bruise. But the bruise turned into an aneurysm. The aneurysm turned into his lungs collapsing.
I exhale the smolder through a closed mouth. White mist still manages to seep through the gaps between my lips. I turn to look at the man in bed next to me dozing, his arm hanging off the side. I use my right hand to wave off the gray in the air. Small bits of ash fly aimlessly before sporadically landing on the white sheets.
You don’t realize that it happens in small steps; working together, being attracted to each other, agreeing to attend the Rhetoric and Literacy Conference in Twin Falls, flirting the entire drive in.
“How many rooms?” The concierge asked when we checked in.
“One room.” I let him answer.
We were budgeted for two.
We skipped the last literary session in favor of flooding the floor with clothes and rustling sheets.
He smelled good, his hair thick filling my palm, neck arched ready to be devoured; he liked me being on top.
“This one time in band camp…” he’d say making me laugh because American Pie is no longer current in the classroom.
“I played the clarinet.” He made me forget the issues that awaited at home.
The woman on the phone continues to explain the timeline of my husband’s death.
At three o’clock, they performed CPR, the voice said, at three twenty he was pronounced dead. I inhale the papered nicotine forcing the burn deep in my sinus to mask the realization that at three twenty-one, I had orgasmed.
I lay there breathless, pushing the man off, then lighting an American Spirit to slow down my breathing.
A petite mortem just one minute after my husband lay dead.
My throat begins to tighten and choke. An explosion of feeling begins to erupt in the pit of my stomach. Sound begins making its way up through my chest. I push all of it down deep into the barrels of my core, preventing any of it from shaping and escaping my mouth. I inhale again burying it further down with the smoke.
I end the call and pack my things. The man, still sleeping, his arm still hanging off the edge of the bed is unaware that the new day we planned through hot breaths and tangled limbs is now the stale scent of cigarette smoke looming in the air.
I close the door behind me.
* * *
The two-hour drive feels long. The numbness I felt when merging onto the freeway has turned into short clipped memories.
The meeting: A play, Spoon River Anthology, I went with a friend. He was sitting behind us asking silly questions like he thought he was funny.
“So, they are all dead talking?” he asked, probably to a person sitting next to him. His voice sounded ignorant, like he’d never seen a play before. Like it was a waste of time and he was tagging along with someone who enjoyed theatre.
“It’s more like a poem of their lives,” a voice responded.
I turned my head slightly making it obvious that I could hear him. Making it clear it was annoying.
He laughed.
After the show, we bumped into each other on the way out. He asked how I liked the play.
“The dead spoke in prose,” I responded. He laughed some more.
“I may not know plays, but I play the guitar,” he said.
“That’s cool,” I said back, still walking. I tried not to smile. Maybe he wasn’t so annoying.
“What’s your name?”
“Joan,” I responded getting in the car.
“Do you have Facebook Joan?” He yelled so I could hear through the closed door.
A friend request popped in two days later.
I shake my head of the memory and look out the driver side window, on the other side of the freeway, past the grass and weeds and flowers. The sun is bright.
Stupid man, I say out loud, you were probably on your way to meet someone.
* * *
The hallway stretches out dark as if it is an alley way. A nurse leads me to a window. Beyond it there is a body under a white sheet. Another nurse is in the room. She slides the white sheet down just enough to view the face.
Funny how a dead man can look like he’s sleeping. As if the worries that accumulated throughout a life time never existed. The skin looks fresh, new, almost like a newborn. The side effects of transcendence, I guess. Expect for the bruise on the side of the forehead, you wouldn’t think he’s lifeless.
After several days of direct messaging through Facebook, we finally exchanged phone numbers. We met up at Julia Davis Park. It was June, the trees were settling into their leaves and flowers, shading the ground for people to sit under. It smelled like fresh landscaping. The grass was aerated to create thickness. It looked like geese droppings.
He had a blanket and spread it out. It felt lumpy. We laid down. There weren’t very many people. It was a weekday, midafternoon. He brought his guitar.
“How long have you played?” I asked.
“A few years,” he said, “I’m not very good.”
I didn’t recognize the song he began strumming.
“Still my guitar gently weeps,” he sang, “I look at the world and I notice it’s turning…”
His voice came from deep within. I could trace the sound to his core. It sounded like his soul.
I leaned in and kissed him. His lips fit perfectly and felt practiced. Did I feel a spark then? I can’t remember. We made out for a long time. When I stood up, he continued laying on the ground facing the bright sky, eyes closed, serene as if he was sleeping.
Just like the man in the room.
I nod my head, “That’s my husband,” I say.
The nurse inside understood. She covers Cory and begins wheeling him out. I watch the door close behind the nurse. I don’t follow the stillness of the body. I don’t know where she is taking the lifeless gurney. He’ll probably be stuffed in a 2x10 refrigerator until it’s time to lower him into the ground.
As I exit the hospital, I consider driving to the scene of the fall. Is there blood on the ground? The road or sidewalk? Was anyone there to witness it? Who called the ambulance? Did a car almost run him over?
There is a spot in the foothills referred to as, The Hill. It is a dirt road off of eighth street that winds through dry patches of grass and expired foliage. You can see the city from an edged cliff when the sun sets. It leaves a pink and blue hue behind the mountains. The smell of dry twigs mixed with wild flowers rides the soft breeze, if one is present.
The first time Cory took me there, we stopped to buy grapefruit beer. He brought his guitar and his camping chairs. I had a blanket in case it got cold. We stood close to the edge of the cliff looking over the city, wrapped in the blanket. He caressed my cheek with his. We kissed.
Was it passionate? Did I have butterflies?
But it’s a non-question, really, because being with him—the physicality—was more about the energy then it was about those first-time feelings one experiences. It felt strong and intense, like a chord attached us. A twin flame of sorts. His lips transmitted a cellular level feeling, as if we knew each other in another life and we were married and settled down, familiar, his lap a place mat for affection.
He took out his guitar, strumming his favorite song, “I see the love there that’s sleeping.” His eyes bright and blue looking deeply into my hazel eyes. I tilted my head and began swaying. He mirrored my movements, leaning in sporadically. We stayed like that until he finished, his soul seeping into the cavity of my chest.
He cupped my face. “You are so beautiful,” he said.
I believed him.
Eros is longing for the things that are far from reach, that space where reality holds the desired. I desired his presence, his lips, his skin, the closeness of his body. It wasn’t a desire to have sex, it was the pleasure of our souls being together. It was the torment felt when we said goodbye and the hollowed-out space of time that passed before we saw each other again. The void that existed with unanswered texts, the feeling of loss when the call went to voicemail. It was a collection of signs that should not have been ignored.
The front door creaks loudly, as if it hasn’t been used for years. The sound is profound in my ear, like I’m entering an abandoned home, worn from years of stifled living, the walls exposed and cracked.
It feels cold.
The setting sun filters through the sheer curtains, creating a serene glow in the living room. It’s a contradiction to the stale scent that lingers in the air. Smoke? Expired perfume, maybe? How many bodies have traveled through this space?
I place the keys in the bowl next to the blinking answering machine. I catch the reflection in the mirror: a tired face, worn and aged without tears, apathetic.
The shift occurred three years ago. He had come home with stiches on his right arm.
“Oh my,” I said, “the other guy ok?” I tried to play.
“Hiking with work,” he replied. We had been living together for a couple of years by that point.
“I’m glad you’re ok.” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He pulled back ever so slightly as if that was his intent and then quickly changed his mind before it could be noticed.
A few weeks later, I was grading papers at the kitchen table. He came out of our room, suddenly, looking at me startled as if he wasn’t expecting me to be there, even though we had spoken earlier.
“Where are you off too?” I asked.
“Just going to get these stiches out,” he said grabbing his guitar.
“The Dr.’s office is open on Saturday?” I asked tapping the end of the pen on my cheek.
He paused as if to collect himself, to allow additional time to think of an answer while he fumbled with the hood of his sweater.
“I’m going back to the ER to get them out,” he said.
We looked at each other for a long time. I wanted to ask him if it was a normal thing to get stitches out at the ER. It didn’t sound normal. Was there anything I needed to worry about? Something felt different. Why was he taking his guitar? Why were there empty bottles of grapefruit beer in the back seat of his Pathfinder? We hadn’t gone to the hill for a while.
“OK,” I said.
“OK,” he said and then made his way to the door. “I’ll be back,” he added without turning.
“Sure,” I said, still tapping my cheek with the pen.
* * *
The reflection in the mirror has shadows forming around the eyes from the evening setting in. The messenger bag over my shoulder feels heavy. My fingers loosen around the purse handles. I walk into the kitchen, set my bag and purse on the table and fold my coat over the chair. I grab the peaked corners and tighten my fingers until they begin to turn white, until the pressure inside my chest encroaches into my throat. I let it out through an open mouth. Tears start to form. I take a deep breath and hold it, stifling the moisture from seeping out of the sides. I blink rapidly to absorb the salty water.
“Don’t cry,” I say out loud, “you stop that shit.”
Cory’s coffee mug is still on the table. The black liquid vibrates from the center out. There is a forest with pine trees and deer design on the front of the mug. A style that is often associated with avid hunters.
Cory never owned a gun.
Another cup is on the table. Yellow. I’m a Ray of Fucking Sunshine is printed in black. My favorite cup that had been washed and placed carefully back in the cupboard before Twin Falls.
Maybe he had a friend over.
I rub my face, too tired to think about the why and make my way into our bedroom.
A Baby Martin guitar is on the bed. Next to it, a card inserted into the leaf of the envelope.
Baby Martin’s are a top-of-the-line brand. Expensive.
Cory would always say that he wasn’t a very good guitar player. He was self-taught, looking up YouTube video clips on how to play and watching other guitarists perform. I hadn’t considered it, but it is possible that he had taken lessons early on and never mentioned it. And if he had taken lessons, the instructor was probably a woman. And she probably had blue eyes and blonde hair. And she was probably curvy.
It didn’t matter that he thought he wasn’t good, I loved hearing him play; the way his thick fingers pushed down the chords to create minor sounds, the way he got excited when I showed interest in playing and the absolute joy he expressed when I purchased my own Martin.
He carried the case out of Guitar Center with such care, it was like he was holding a newborn.
It’s that moment when your learning and understanding matches the one who inspired the learning and you begin teaching him and showing him finger placement and how sound can be enhanced through various points of fingertip pressure.
Suddenly, the shared interest that brought joy is filled with awkward movements and strained responses.
He tried to bring the first-time flare back on a Sunday morning. I was sitting on the couch, legs crossed sipping coffee, watching him play a new song he’d written his fingers were having trouble with the B minor finger placement.
“You put your index finger closer to the fret to allow extension of your other fingers.” I showed him. This wasn’t a new concept I discovered. I was repeating knowledge we both learned on YouTube tutorials. It was easy for me to apply it because my fingers were longer than his and could transition out of a B minor faster.
“Another way to do it is how you showed me before…” I made sure to bring it back to him so as not to appear like I was teaching him. Teachers never make good students anyways.
Things were off overall by that point, like an orchestra losing its tempo and trying desperately to get back on the beat of the drum.
“I know,” he said holding my hand as he pushed it away. I moved to sit on the floor. He began strumming House of The Rising Sun. I smiled trying to shift the tension of the previous moment.
He looked at me, trying to make eye contact, trying to create a moment of magic. It was difficult to connect. It was difficult to block the Pathfinder driving ahead of me earlier in the week, a guitar sticker on the bumper, a black case sticking upright in the back seat, a man and a woman sitting in the front seats. I turned right as the SUV drove ahead up the dirt road into the foot hills.
Was it Cory though? The man’s hair was light brown. Did it have threads of gray? Was the case a guitar case? And just because it looked like a blonde hair person was in the passenger side, was it a woman? Men sported long hair as well.
Was the sticker a guitar? It was raining and with a crack in the windshield the images were not always clear.
Cory motioned for me to join him in the song. I shook my head and drew my hands into my chest, leaning away. He tried to tickle my neck, then stroked my hair. I brushed my cheek against his knee.
It was all awkward and unnatural.
* * *
I remember the blinking answering machine and walk to it.
Cory’s voice projects through the small speaker.
“I’m sorry for the mistakes,” his voice sounds old, tired. “I wish I could go back and change the years before, but I can’t. I can only hope you can forgive me and that things can be worked out.” There is a pause, his breath seeping through in a slow rhythm, as if his words are caught in between a measure of music. “I love you.”
Click.
Like the click of the phone number written in pink on the back of the receipt. The woman saying, Hello, hello, Cory? After dialing.
Click.
Like the sound Brick tries to achieve each time he drinks in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, when the alcohol kicks in sending the body into a sedative state of being.
Click.
Like the sound of a door locking.
Is the message even for me?
I walk back to the room, touch the baby Martin, strum the strings.
I look at you now, see the love there that’s sleeping. We are on the hill and the sun is setting and the sky is orange and lavender follows the breeze.
We are also at Matador restaurant. Happy hour, drinking spicy margaritas. Flirting like we’d just met. The waitress brings the check. There are pauses, there is eye contact, there is touch. Cory suddenly wants to pay. It takes a while to sign the slip. Is that a phone number he writes on the bill?
How can one be sure when your gut sends alarms down your spine but it all seems so casual, so ordinary, such an everyday interaction. Except for when you see prolonged eye contact, as if they are communicating something. Call me or You are so beautiful.
Going back a few days after to ask the waitress if he left his number on the paid slip is useless. She wouldn’t remember and even if she did, what kind of woman follows up on a maybe or a hunch or a gut feeling?
A crazy woman? An insecure, get a life type of woman?
There is sheet music with markings on it. A new song Cory has written, perhaps. I sit on the bed to look at it. There is something under the paper.
It’s a bracelet made of guitar strings.
How long into our relationship did Cory give me a bracelet with guitar strings? Two years? Three, maybe? Were we living together? Why can’t I remember?
Is this bracelet for me? Where did I put the one he gave me?
I open the drawer to the night stand, moving around the years of accumulated things; journal notebooks, pens, sticky notes, condoms, Hallmark cards, charging chords, various knickknacks and all the way in the back, the bracelet.
The strings are aged and dingy from dust and darkness and open air. The strings to the one on the bed are new and shiny and sparkle gold under the light.
A photo of Cory is also next to the Baby Martin. I had missed it before. It’s a black and white picture of Cory taken on a bench with poplar trees waving in the back, his arms resting in a casual way on the edge of his guitar, his face coarse with blonde pricks of hair. His eyes smiling, his lips parted as if he was trying to say something.
I had met him for lunch downtown in Hyde Park. It was midweek and our first year together. After we ordered and settled into our seats, he handed me a manilla envelope.
Inside was the photo.
“We did marketing pics and the photographer took photos of us when we weren’t looking,” he said. “She thought I might want a copy,” he added smiling.
“I love it,” I said with beaming eyes.
“It’s for you,” he said.
I smiled a joyful smile. The kind of smile you see on someone who feels like they are the most important person in the world. The kind of smile and shining eyes one sees after a passionate kiss occurs out of the blue.
“You’re the first person I thought of to give it too,” he said.
The eyes, the smile fell. Who else was in consideration?
* * *
I walk back to the answering machine to listen to the message again. To be sure it is for me. To be sure I’m not misunderstanding or assuming or hoping, falsely.
The card is there. I must have left it earlier.
I play the message again, brushing my lips with the tips of my fingers. Underneath the tiredness of his voice, it sounds sincere, like he is truly sorry, like he is ready to begin new again.
What is he sorry for? The unspoken distance that seeps into relationships when comfortability sets in and old habits don’t transcend into new experiences?
Is he sorry for the late nights, walking by with the smell of Tresor or Juicy Couture or whatever fancy perfume lingered as he made his way to the shower, leaving the residue of the evening behind as I lay sleeping? The cans of grapefruit beer in the back seat of his Pathfinder?
Did he know I slept with my coworker? Is he sorry for me?
Am I sorry?
I make my way to the room again, sit on the bed, hold the card with both hands, graze the rough texture.
Before I left for Twin Falls, Cory had been more attentive, had rubbed my shoulders more frequently, had taken the time to ask about my day, listening attentively. He hugged me more, lingered his lips on mine, brushing my cheek with kisses. It was both confusing and exhilarating, hopeful even.
What caused the sudden shift? Was he going to miss me? Did he sense that something may happen after he asked if I was attending the conference solo and I had replied, no.
He even woke up to say goodbye before I left, holding me tightly, rubbing his stubbled chin on my soft cheek. I loved the feel of how it scraped my skin without leaving a mark. He pressed the corner of his lips on mine, letting an energy build between us, hearts beating a little faster, and our breaths becoming hotter.
“We’ll go on the hill when you come back,” he said. I nodded. Sure, we’ll go—next time will be the response when I ask him shall we go? I buried my face into his shoulder trying to hide the doubt of his words.
I loved the way his arms wrapped around me and made me feel held. Not safe, but held. He was strong and it was this physical strength I fed on. Strength that when put to good use could both protect and destroy.
I didn’t plan on holding my breath for him to follow through. I was relieved to go, to get some distance, to not have to worry…about him, about me, about us.
As if sensing the hesitation, he held my face into his hands, “We’ll go,” he insisted, “I promise,” he added and held my sunken gaze.
I nodded, put on my shoes, opened the door, looked back.
His eyes were so sincere. The blue iris’ glistening. His expression…believable.
* * *
“You were trying,” I say out loud, allowing tears to fill the rims of my eyes. “You were trying,” I repeat turning the card over and under.
The message, he must have left it for me to hear when I got back. He was probably down town getting things, flowers maybe or picnic items for us to take to the hill.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper closing my eyes, covering my face with my right hand. What have I done? I want to scream but nothing comes out.
I resist crumbling the card due to the overwhelming energy trapped underneath my flesh seeking desperately a way to release out of my body.
I take in a breath and steady myself, refocus on something out side of me.
The card.
I open it. Can I take anymore? Is it better not to read the inside? Maybe reading it—because surely, it’s for me, like the Baby Martin, so that we can return to the beginning, like the bracelet, new and shiny, a fresh start—will help me scream with sorrow, to mourn and acknowledge the guilt of not trusting.
Hey beautiful. I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping. Love C.
I feel it building in my chest, the pressure, the cries piling, bubbling through my throat threatening to push open my mouth.
There is more.
p.s can’t wait to see you…
Is that the door handle I hear? I wait for the sound again. Keys. The click of the knob.
Is someone trying to break in?
I walk towards the front door, it is opening as I approach.
“Cory?” A woman stretches inside halfway, as if to make sure it’s safe to come in. “The door was already open…oh.” She sees me.
There is a moment of silence. The woman takes in a small breath. I fix my stare into the woman’s eyes. They are blue turning green, because the moment is tense and her heart must be beating. They are dilated and wild. They are full of fear and dread. They are weak. They are lonely.
Underneath the woman’s coat, I see green scrubs. I look up and notice the stethoscope around her neck.
The card. It’s still in my hand.
…in your scrubs using your stethoscope. You should hear how hard my heart beats…for you.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, “He told me you’d be gone through Monday.”
I let the card drop through my fingers.
I let the moment reveal itself. The maybes and hunches. The gut feeling. The alarm running down the spine.
“Cory’s dead.” I say without emotion, without any regard of how she may feel, without any desire to find answers or know who she is and why she’s here.
I know why.
* * *
Click on the link below for the short film.
* * *
Audio
Narrator: Corina Monoran
Voice of Cory: Caleb Monoran
Acoustic Guitar: Corey Heuvel
Short Film
Joan: Ellen Smith
Cory: Jason Haskins
Kelly/ER Nurse: Erin Westfall
Other Man: William Smith
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