An ad for some ointment played on the tv, the only light in the room. He rubbed his grainy eyes, it offered no relief. His eyes felt as though they were being dragged down by anchors, but he kept them open. Truth is, he didn’t want to go to sleep. For the past few nights, a familiar face had infiltrated his dreams. They always started off the same. In the middle of something mundane, like the one from last night where he was in the grocery store. He was comparing two brands of multi-grain bread, reading off the ingredients. He didn’t know what particular thing he would see that shift the favor to one over the other, but when he’d see it, he’d know. While distracted, she’d come from around the corner and dropped something in the basket. How horridly familiar it was. Her hair haphazardly piled on her head and baggy sweats. He looked around to see if anyone else could see her, but they were all alone. It was normal, and it was not. Her face had become an unwelcomed intrusion. Why now he thought. The show returned from its break, but he found himself suddenly disinterested. He wanted coffee.
He trudged to the kitchen and made his way to the coffee maker. He opened the cabinet above it and found his favorite dark roast. With muscle memory he prepared it, his body performing the perfect machinations without his full attention. There was no other sound in the early morning besides the low murmur of the tv and the percolations of his Mr. Coffee. He thought he was doing better. For months he spent his days finding fractions of her in the minutia of life. Now, he was reclaiming normalcy. He’d stop smelling her favorite chunky-knit sweater after long days at work. Her name no longer stuck like a blasphemous hook in his throat. The sound of her voice was leaving him, and the guilt no longer ate at him when he couldn’t quite recall how’d it sounded when she ordered from their favorite restaurant. He couldn’t help but wonder why she was prevalent again. Would this be his life now? To be struck by a wave of grief like a tsunami every time he rediscovered stillness.
He went to the cabinet full of mugs. He knew which one he wanted; it was on the top shelf pushed all the way to the back. Anyone looking for a cup would never venture that far. When he found it, he held it in his hands as if it were some precious artifact. It was her favorite. Visually, he thought it rather plain. White with hand-painted flowers, she got it at some outdoor market. She never explained what made it so special. She prided herself on having little secrets like that. Many moments he watched her protect those tiny indulgences hidden behind her self-knowing smirk over that same cup filled with coffee. The image of her branded in his mind. He let himself smile at the memory. He moved it around until he found what he was looking for. A lasting reminder of her. A perfect imprint of her bottom lip left in purple.
“It’s mauve.”
“Purple. Mauve. What’s the difference?”
“Well obviously, purple’s purple. Mauve’s Mauve. Duh.”
The morning she left that mug in the sink was typical. He was annoyed that she yet again got away with not doing the dishes. After getting home from the hospital that afternoon and finding it in the sink, he couldn’t be happier. It was his little secret, the appeal of them all too apparent. It was a piece of her he didn’t have to share. Something that was all his own.
On nights like tonight, he’d lose himself in fantasy. He would hold the mug a certain way and pretend he could feel her hands under his. He’d chase the sensation further and soon her back would be pressed against his chest her curly hair tickling at his nose. But it never lasted long enough, never got real enough. He often wondered what would happen if he pressed his lips to that spot. Would it feel like she was kissing him back? Could he feel her shivers of excitement? Would she just be there for a moment? He hated how every recollection of her now was tainted with pain. Something in him shifted. His thumb hovered over the print. He pressed across the lipstick and watched it disappear. He waited for a reaction, shock, anger, relief. Aching sadness from losing her again. Nothing came. The idol made the shift back to coffee mug. He poured in coffee and added sugar and cream and went back to the living room. It cooled down, providing more company than sustenance as he pretended to keep up with the drama procedural on the screen. Perhaps the best he will ever do is learn to brace for the storm.
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