Routine

He brushed his fingers through his hair, then again to fix it. He sighed and ached for a black coffee. She wiped up the red wood coffee table and placed a mug of tea in front of him. Her hair was up and sticking out, and she was still in her pajamas. She looked tired. He looked up at her and said thank you. He pulled her down onto the couch next to him and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You make me tea too often, sleepy." She sunk into his shoulder. "Stay home today." "What?" He shifted and her head slipped off his shoulder. She sat up. "Nevermind." He picked up the mug and didn't drink. She looked down and pulled at a thread on the couch. He gulped his tea and reached his hand over her fingers, stopping her. He swallowed. "Well don't pull at it." She smiled shyly. "It's not going to unravel from one string." He shrugged. He sighed and got up, and she settled deeper into the couch. She took the tea from the coffee table and sipped. She pretended not to watch him putting on his jacket, and grabbing his hat. He watched her smile a little, she loved that hat. He caught her eyes and she lifted her chin. Her eyes shifted as she stared at him. "I'll see you soon." The door was almost closed when she began cleaning up. He waited. He heard her sing a tired phrase and stop. He closed the door and wished he hadn't heard.
The sky was dark again when he drove home, and headlights lit up the winter sludge on the lonely street. An old man walked his black dog, his eyes glowing when the light hit him. The dog barked through the density. He pulled up to the pale house.
He sat still inside the car for a moment. He leaned back against the headrest and breathed. He twisted the radio on without looking.
Look out the saints are coming through, it’s all over now baby blue…
He waited until it ended. He hadn’t meant to. In the same sharp motion he turned off the radio, the key and opened the door into the night.
Snow piled around the window next to the door. He saw her lying on the coach. The television was playing, but she was facing the other way, with her head on her arm and her face into the cushions. She was still in her pajamas. Her arm was twisted beneath her, she looked skinny, perfectly mangled. He stopped breathing. She looked hidden in her clothing, in the couch; the room looked so big and she looked small and he held his breath like the house would come falling in on her, and wake her.
He pulled hard on the door and contained himself, closing it slowly. She stirred on the couch. He breathed.
She sat up and looked towards him, smiling. He crossed into the kitchen. “How was your day?” she called. “Was fine.” The scotch bottle sat on the counter where he’d left it. Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises rested next to it. He rinsed a glass from the sink, poured, and picked up the book. A couple pages had been dog-eared. He drank.
She followed him into the kitchen and took a stool. “My day was pretty uneventful.” “Some reading?” he showed her the book. “I’ve read your Hemingways’ more than you have.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his waist. He kissed her forehead. “Well if you read it fast, you won’t understand it.” She smiled.
He strolled back into the living room and put the book on the shelf. He kept the dog-ears. Still, he didn’t look to see where they were.
That night she wore her same pajamas to bed. He lay next to her with his eyes closed. He felt her looking at him, smiling, and he opened his eyes. He looked past her to the nightstand, with its stack of books, her sleeping pills waiting on top. He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “I would have stayed if I knew it was a bad day.” His hair was tickling her and she wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t want you to stay because it’s a bad day, I wanted you to stay because you want to stay.” He reached past her to grab the pill bottle. He fumbled open the drawer with the same hand and stopped. He weighed the light bottle in his hand. The emptiness sunk a hole through his palm. He threw the bottle into the drawer. He lay back and closed his eyes. She reached for his hand and he pretended he didn’t notice. He waited while she slept.
She woke up once. She was breathing fast, frantic. She reached for him. He kept his eyes closed. “Breath slow, sweetheart.” She fell back asleep.
In the morning around three, he let himself reach for her hand. He found it with his eyes closed. It was cool and foreign, and he cried.
He cried because she wouldn’t see him crying. He pushed his face into the pillow and sobbed. He shook and begged like a child. He sucked in breath. She was waiting while he breathed. She didn’t open her eyes and she didn’t hold his hand back and she didn’t smile at him and she didn’t wrap her hands around his waist.
He begged for his ghost back. He knew she had been gone long before now. He quieted his crying trying to remember a tired phrase echoing through his head, that he wished he’d remembered.
Strike another match, go start anew;
it’s all over now, baby blue