Upstate New York
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Liquid sunlight dripped onto a desert in steady, even strokes. Like a clock. A metronome.
A heartbeat.
The beat measured the seconds of the day. But it wasn’t sand that caught each golden drop. It fell into Alex.
Heavy, heavy Alex.
She floated in a dream, not knowing it was a dream—a nowhere of sweetness—until she neared the surface, close enough to taste real life.
Her eyelashes cracked.
She stared at a popcorn ceiling. Up there in the catacombs of her misty mind was her name, but she couldn’t see past the fluffy grit, the swirly texture. It was just a ceiling.
There was no name.
There was a warm place beneath the covers. She reached under the downy comforter, expecting to feel a dark spot spreading across her midsection where she had wet the bed. She was nude, but dry. Her bladder, full.
The blinds in the window were dark. She began drifting beneath the surface again where nothing mattered, where her dreams would cradle her in a warm embrace.
What’s my name?
When the bedroom door opened, she didn’t recognize Samuel at first. It took a few seconds to recognize her spouse, then a few more to remember his name. He appeared fuzzy. Even after she blinked several times, he still appeared to be a double image out of focus.
“Hungry?” He placed a tray on the dresser.
He had gone away for a few weeks.
She seemed to remember a sudden business trip and complications, something to do with the government and CIA, top secret service that required his anonymity. He texted and emailed, but didn’t have the service to call.
But now he was here, every day. He appeared when she woke up, always with food and a smile. Steam rose from a teacup; the scent of chamomile mixing with her body odor rising from beneath the covers. It wasn’t a bad smell, but it made her wonder when she showered last.
Samuel sat on the bed; his musky scent, his manly allure pushed into her senses. He took her hand and massaged her fingers one at a time, kneaded her palms, rubbed her arms until her eyes began to roll. She smiled. It was impossible not to.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“It’s about that time.”
She looked around. Where are the clocks?
“I got to pee.”
“Want a pan?”
“What?”
“Joking.”
Samuel made shushing sounds, rubbing and stroking and caressing. If there wasn’t pressure in her midsection, she’d have pulled him under the covers and let him do things to her.
She peeled herself away and urinated in the bathroom for what seemed like hours. Her head, resting on her knees, was a sandbag. Thoughts and memories trickled through the fog, things she should be doing but no longer wanted to.
There were interviews and drafts to write, chapters to edit. Deadlines to meet. It could wait. It could all wait. Even, she thought while flushing, personal hygiene.
Samuel was under the covers. His shoulders were bare and bronze; muscles bunched along his arms. She slid next to him, fell into his embrace and forgot about those deadlines.
Life was too damn good.
——————————————
Samuel was gone.
Sunlight cut between the blinds.
That side of the house faced west, which meant it was afternoon. Judging by the angle and length of the dusty sunbeams, it was late. Had she slept an entire day?
It was impossible to know.
She wrapped a robe around her nudity and bent a single blind. It was clear and sunny, the window chilled. A school bus rolled down the street, followed by laughter.
A pang of guilt struck her. Or is it sadness? Or both?
Somewhere in the endless blue sky, thunder rumbled.
The bed is new.
She couldn’t remember ever sleeping in a king with comforters that thick. And she slept right in the middle, like it was all hers. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, just remembered the rhythm of Samuel’s embrace. Now it was mid-afternoon and there were things to do, but the thought of sitting at the computer, of punching those keys and staring at the screen was empty. She wanted to sleep, to sink deep into the mattress and into a dream where nothing hurt, and nothing bothered her.
Pots and pans rang downstairs. Samuel was cooking.
The front room was spotless. All the shelves had been dusted, the carpet cleaned, the throw pillows just the way she liked them. Samuel was stirring a warm pot of stew. She loved stew on a lazy winter day.
“Don’t you have to work?” she asked.
“Working at home.” He sampled the pot and stirred. “Skyping a conference a bit later. Thought we could watch a movie tonight.”
The laptop was on the kitchen table, a background photo of Alex on the screen, her eyes closed, a slight smile. She couldn’t remember that picture—maybe Samuel took it while she was sleeping.
It was strange to see contentment on her. Her photos were always intense, all business, get the job done. Even their wedding photos, like she was imitating joy.
A bad actor pretending to be happy.
But that picture on the computer—that was the real deal. She felt it in her toes.
A ten.
“Where you going?” he asked.
She had her hand on the back door. There was a little blank spot between staring at the laptop and going to the door. She couldn’t remember that short little walk.
“Getting some fresh air,” she said.
The leaves had fallen, but Samuel had picked them up. The flower beds had been put to sleep, the grass neatly trimmed. A squirrel or something squabbled in the bushes.
She pulled her robe closed, but the winter air rushed up her legs. It felt clean, the deck boards hard on her feet. She took a long deep breath through her nostrils and closed her eyes.
Somewhere a child laughed.
It wasn’t far away. There were kids in the neighborhood, but this sounded like it was right in front of her. The backyard, though, was quiet, still and empty. A wave of voices passed overhead, like a speaker mounted on a passing drone—those fragmented pieces of language all mixed together like a pot of stew.
Thunder rumbled in a blue sky.
Her toes had become stiff. She wandered deeper into the backyard, walking like a monk, thinking about Tyler Ballard. She had never gotten around to transcribing her notes. It was probably the best interview she’d ever done. At the very least, the most revealing. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to pick up where she left off.
Not the best interview...the most satisfying.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, though. What had been so gratifying? Was it what he said? But as she dragged her feet across the lawn, she couldn’t remember anything he said.
Or was it the way he said it?
A door slammed.
Alex was on the driveway, the concrete colder and harder than the grass. Her knees were sufficiently numb, her fingers and nose aching. A brown truck had pulled up to the curb.
UPS.
The deliveryman stepped out of the open door. He rushed up the driveway with long strides just short of a trot with a box under his arm. It was wrapped in brown paper. He smiled at Alex.
“Bit cold today,” he said.
There was writing on the box.
She didn’t have to sign for it. He just handed it to her.
Her name was on the front. It was written in green ink. Alessandra Diosa.
“You’re going to freeze.” He took the box away. But it wasn’t the UPS guy. Samuel put his arm around her. The truck was gone. How long had she been standing there?
Long enough that she couldn’t feel her lips.
They went inside. They ate stew. They watched a movie. Later, they made love.
When Alex woke late the next day, she tried to remember her name and the day. She eventually did. But she never saw the package addressed in green ink again.
Never even remembered it.
She just wanted to sleep.