A Fiction: Part III

It actually takes some effort to throw myself from the rushing crowd into the small opening that is our doorway. It’s a small cut out in the side of a commercial building – our flat is directly above a small bakery that has been struggling of late. I am awoken every day with the owner screaming at his wife that they are “losing it.” The smell of fresh baked breads and cakes mixed with the pain of failing business and lost momentum. His father (and father’s father) was the star of the neighborhood, but people can’t be bothered to go out and pick up fresh items any more. Food is primarily door delivered by large conglomerates and the “mom and pops” of the past are a disappearing novelty.

My key sticks in the lock in its usual familiar way. I jiggle it open and creak through the ancient doorway. The landing is just big enough for the door to swing. I have to climb the first step to close it. I step back and check for new mail. The usual shit: statements of payments, advertisements for services and requests for political support. “The Norm” is the new slogan term for the status quo or business as usual. This one reads

MODIFY THE NORM. AVOID THE RISK OF CHANGE. MAKE NOW BETTER.

Fucked-up world.

I hear music coming from our apartment as I climb the stairs. I time my steps to ensure I use my left on the 9^th stair, otherwise my shoe may be seen hanging from the bakery stock room ceiling. I won’t miss this place; the years of dust and debris, the missing foot grips, the unsure hand-rail. It is black as pitch excepting the light from beneath the door above. The light is broken as someone walks past – presumably her. I steel myself for what I intend to be a quick break.

The entry door is not locked (as usual), and I open it slowly. She is standing at the window, her arm draped across the sash. Her thin body moves slowly in time to the music. She is as beautiful as the day we met. It’s funny: she was a traffic officer with the city’s commission on parking. My car has been mostly unused for the past few years, but in those days it held a certain status to drive a fossil fueled vehicle; “against the grain,” extravagant, and somewhat rebellious. My meter had overrun it’s time and she was preparing to have me towed. As I approached her, I found her immediately attractive. I was carrying two large bags of groceries, and was able to convince her to allow me to put them in the back seat. Her smile raised the hair on the back of my neck as it does now seeing her by the window, the cold city light reflected on her face.

“You got in just in time,” she says. “It’s starting to rain.”

I put my bag on the table and move towards her. She turns and I see she has been crying. As usual.

“How are you today? Have you been outside?”

“There’s nothing out there for me,” she answers sharply and quickly changes the subject. “I saw on the morning reports that there was a bad train accident this morning. 12 men killed – no women. Isn’t that strange? I was worried you had been one of them. I tried to call your supervisor and he said you were not in.” She turns and races into my arms, sobbing. After all these months of silence and pushing away, TODAY she breaks the ice wall and comes to me. I hold her limply and I feel her body tighten up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Her swollen red eyes now wide with curiosity search mine for a clue.

“I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’ll be back. I’m here to get a few things and then you’ll be alone.” Short and sweet as I intended. The steel in my heart begins to soften as she falls into the nearest chair. Her breath is deep and I worry she may be sick. But I am resolved. I turn and walk towards our room. Entering, I see the bed we have shared and I am flooded with images of her, beautiful and naked, her desire for me honest and warm. I ache for her once more, but I know that it cannot be that way again. I must go. I must…

I turn and she is there behind me. She reaches her arms beneath mine and holds me from behind. I loosen her grasp and we fall to the bed, her face a wash of tears, her eyes clear and urgent. We share this moment, both of us knowing it is our last.