I finished my meal and hand washed each dish I used because that’s how she always did it. The house was tidy because she cleaned up after everything she did. I did a thorough cleaning job too, scrubbing each dish meticulously. The designs around the outer edge of the plate reminded me of her modest, yet elegant taste.
The things she enjoyed were so simple, yet so profound. She appreciated the fresh smell that lingered after a big rainstorm, and could spend hours just sitting on top of the big hill that overlooked our city even with her long dark auburn hair twirling and whipping in the wind. She said she liked that the view allowed her to see everything below, even though things were so small that they all seemed to blur together like that famous painting with the swirled stars. It was on that hill that I asked her to marry me, and she often begged me to take her on drives that inevitably ended there because I didn’t want to take the time to find a place we hadn’t already discovered. I once called it “our spot” so she wouldn’t bother me about exploring new territory. She was obsessed with poems and song lyrics that she explained put her feelings into words. There were poems, quotes, and lyrics framed all over our house. The sentimental things meant more to her than money spent on jewelry or flowers. It’s a good thing she felt that way because gifts were a rarity from me, sentimental or not.
She valued spending time with me and I really did like that about her. It’s what made her different to me. I think the last time I took her out of the house, besides to the local pub to watch that week’s basketball game, was on a drive to the hill she enjoyed so much. You know, the one where I proposed to her. I realized I still had a dish in my hand when the harshness of the silence impaled my thoughts and I quickly returned the dried dishes to their places. Lately, washing dishes gave me too much time to relive my savage treatment of her. I didn’t want to feel guilty anymore.
Once I was finished with the clean-up, I poured myself a small glass of brandy before I dropped to the couch to watch the nightly rerun of "CSI." That night’s episode was one I had seen three or four times before which followed a set of twins separated by a kidnapper. I sipped slowly on my drink before one hand loosely steadied the glass on my right thigh. I didn’t care much for the taste of brandy, but I kept a steady supply for the sole purpose of being able to say her name out loud. It made me feel like she was still around in some way. The ring left on the bedside table didn’t allow me even that small pleasure.
By ten o’clock, the show was finished and the twins on "CSI" had been reunited with only a few fatalities. I finished the last swig of brandy remaining in my glass and rinsed it in the kitchen sink. I hadn’t realized how routine my keeping the glass next to the sink had become until that night when my motions seemed more thorough than others.
Walking down the long, unlit hallway to my bedroom used to be somewhat exhilarating. I had seen too many murder mystery movies and always wondered if one night there would be a maniac lurking in the shadows of the black hallway just waiting to attack. I wondered how it might feel to have a knife wildly shoved into my stomach. Maybe the miscreant’s aim would be a fatal blow to my chest. Perhaps a gun would be more efficient, almost certainly causing a quick death. Shaking my head at my macabre thoughts, I trudged down the hallway, still glaringly alive. At that point, I wouldn’t have minded a murderer hiding in my house. It might have brought some feeling back to my life. Or if I were lucky, ended it.
I crawled into bed at the time she would have, but laid awake for a few more hours staring at the words scribbled on the back of a grocery list that read, the brightest flames always burn out so fast. –B
Spoken words, like the past, are impossible to edit. Imagining her beside me seemed to be the only way I could get myself to sleep, but the pillow I cradled still wasn’t her.
6:15 A.M. Seven months and nineteen days.
