nilacqua
05-08-2012, 11:01 PM
I had watched her sip her black coffee and turn the pages of one of the café’s books from the sagging bookcase. She would look periodically at the snow outside the door and exhale slowly. Then she laid book on the table, stood, swung a green canvas satchel over her shoulder and started walking.
The way she walked reminded me of Suzanne, like a ballerina floating from one step to next, touching the ground just to say she had been there. Suzanne would walk like that, with fragile purpose.
I remembered being on the beach with Suzanne during sunset, her head nestled in my shoulder as eyes opened wide and did a big intake of the view, before sighing and closing them. She said then “The day ends before we’re ready and starts again whether we like it or not.”
I looked at her. She was jostled slightly by my movement and took her hands out of her pockets to push tighter closed her coat as a big wind came up off the waves. I said, “I never know what to say when you say something like that.” I never did. She said, “I just like you to listen.” And so I paid attention to her breathing. She would say things like that and I would say things like that and we would walk along the beach as the sun hesitated above the horizon.
She would come home with stories about fairies in the park and I listened to her beautiful words of red noses and tall hats circling trees. I could see them in my mind and she could take me there. It was like seeing crystal castles formed out of sea foam. It was like turning the block and seeing the sun set over the ocean. I was like the world I always wanted. I would look into her eyes and see the world part to reveal its beating core.
Then one day she would look out the back window and tell stories of the fairies in the yard, narrating their movements in a whispered monotone. I followed her eyes but only saw an unkempt garden.
Watercolors of sad and angry faces started showing up on the refrigerator, followed by rosaries hanging from the bedposts like sagging eyes. There were late nights of her crying, her face contorting with her words and then long silences. I’d watch her get out of bed walk to look out back and get back in bed, while I sat at the table. She would leave for days and come back with scars. I would see in her eyes the fire reaching for kindle but already being blown back. Then, finally, the day I dyed my suit black and saw her in the ground. It was like dancing with a tiger, beautiful until the end.
I looked up to see the woman pull the door open. In the silence, between ice scraping, I saw her lips part and say “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I’ll be with you.”
The way she walked reminded me of Suzanne, like a ballerina floating from one step to next, touching the ground just to say she had been there. Suzanne would walk like that, with fragile purpose.
I remembered being on the beach with Suzanne during sunset, her head nestled in my shoulder as eyes opened wide and did a big intake of the view, before sighing and closing them. She said then “The day ends before we’re ready and starts again whether we like it or not.”
I looked at her. She was jostled slightly by my movement and took her hands out of her pockets to push tighter closed her coat as a big wind came up off the waves. I said, “I never know what to say when you say something like that.” I never did. She said, “I just like you to listen.” And so I paid attention to her breathing. She would say things like that and I would say things like that and we would walk along the beach as the sun hesitated above the horizon.
She would come home with stories about fairies in the park and I listened to her beautiful words of red noses and tall hats circling trees. I could see them in my mind and she could take me there. It was like seeing crystal castles formed out of sea foam. It was like turning the block and seeing the sun set over the ocean. I was like the world I always wanted. I would look into her eyes and see the world part to reveal its beating core.
Then one day she would look out the back window and tell stories of the fairies in the yard, narrating their movements in a whispered monotone. I followed her eyes but only saw an unkempt garden.
Watercolors of sad and angry faces started showing up on the refrigerator, followed by rosaries hanging from the bedposts like sagging eyes. There were late nights of her crying, her face contorting with her words and then long silences. I’d watch her get out of bed walk to look out back and get back in bed, while I sat at the table. She would leave for days and come back with scars. I would see in her eyes the fire reaching for kindle but already being blown back. Then, finally, the day I dyed my suit black and saw her in the ground. It was like dancing with a tiger, beautiful until the end.
I looked up to see the woman pull the door open. In the silence, between ice scraping, I saw her lips part and say “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I’ll be with you.”