There’s an open fish tank full of dirt and mulch and shriveled up moldy paperwhite bulbs. The T.V. is on a stool in the middle of the empty living room with another stool facing it, a few feet away. The plastic shower curtain is orangey and cracking. Three split tiles on the bathroom floor. One queen-sized mattress atop a box spring in the bedroom, dual indents worn in. On the kitchen floor: a baking tray, bits of potato crusted to the surface. And the whole place is quiet and cold, like a second before I entered, someone sucked the warmth and people out of existence with a straw through the open window. No one there.
I’m entering the house from memory. This isn’t how it’d really be.
Really, I can’t imagine what happened to Sean afterwards. It’s much easier to believe that he vanished. That he no longer exists now that Felix no longer does.
.
My partner sees I’m upset and asks to know what I’m writing. I tell them it’s about Felix.
“Yeah?” they say. “It’s good to reminisce about the people who’re gone.”
I feel bitter and twisted and shake my head.
“I’m not reminiscing. There’s nothing good to remember.”
“You must’ve had good moments?”
“Not really. Maybe when we were kids, yeah. We’d laugh when we’d see each other, but there was all this shit underneath.”
A pause.
“How did you find out?”
“His sister called me. I knew something had happened when I saw her name come up on my phone. I was too scared to answer. She left a text telling me to call her. I waited until the next morning and took my phone down to huddle in the darkest corner of my basement and do it.”
“How did you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do that day?”
“I don’t remember. But I remember feeling a disconnect because I told my parents that Felix was dead and I was so deadpan about it. It surprised me how upset they were. The next day, I remember I went for a walk on campus and my dad was getting out of work for lunch and he texted to ask what I was up to and we went and got donuts.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“You can be thankful to Felix for giving you that moment with your dad.”
.
A dark song that we both like because it sounds like moving
and we are moving until it feels too heavy,
and then the song sways for us and I felt
and I felt old
things under lots and lots of layers.
It’s all buried.
How to get it out? Anything at all? Too hard and long
and very very heavy
except when thin
I miss it. I missed it.
I miss everything that passes
and moves like it won’t come back even once for a second or a few moments.
I can only imagine how my face looks from the outside when I realize I am here
and so are you
and time
isn’t
up
—A note Felix slipped into my hand the last time I saw him. He mailed me letters full of gibberish, nonsense words, the paper delicately colored in with red pencil.
.
I met Felix’s partner, Sean, only once.
“We’ve both got pretty cool hair”—something I remember him saying to me. I had bleached curls, sides cut short. It was a compliment, but he included himself in it.
He talked about communism. Or maybe I just remember it that way because Felix and him had met online and bonded over Marx and Russian. When they met, Felix was an 18-year-old girl with a shaved head. Now, he’s dead.
How do you live with someone as they slowly shrink themself to death?
Who do you have to be?
.
July 27th, 2020, 11:56 PM
Felix: i feel so disconnected
Felix: i’ve been engaged but it’s a horrible mess now
Felix: he doesn’t want me because i’m transitioning
Me: that fucking sucks
Felix: we’ll have been together almost four years
Felix: he told me he couldn’t stand being with an ugly old trans man one day
.
They got married. Felix in hospice.
How do you deal with marrying someone right before they die?
How do you drive home?
Who do you have to be?
.
In the coffee shop of my imagination, I lift my palm and wave Sean over towards the booth in the back. We smile at each other as he walks up to scooch out the chair across from me and sit down.
“Did you order something?” He motions to the cup in his hands.
“Oh yeah, it should be up soon.”
“I got a coffee but I probably don’t need it,” he says.
His hands wrap around the paper cup like they’re desperate for warmth. He’s very slight.
“How are you?” I say.
“I’m alright.”
“Have you been okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. There’s a thin silver ring around his fourth finger.
“I don’t know,” I force myself to speak, “I just thought maybe if I could talk to you it would help me. I never really knew you and I guess I just realized I wish I did.”
Sean nods slowly like he’s remembering something. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again.
“I was surprised when I remembered there was someone else he knew,” he says, frowning.
“You guys seemed very insular.”
“I just didn’t really need much more,” he says.
“And now?” I ask.
“I guess I don’t really need anyone.”
“Is that hard?”
Sean shrugs.
“What made you show up?” I ask.
“I thought he’d probably want me to.”
“He probably wanted a lot.”
My tea order is called out and I stand up to get it. A white paper cup rests on the wooden ledge of the counter. I grab a lid and secure it over the rim.
.
This isn’t how it’d really be.
Willow Campbell
Willow Campbell (they/them) is a fiction candidate through the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts Program at Cleveland State University. Their work has appeared in venues such as X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Gordon Square Review, and Your Impossible Voice.