From My Favorite Corner

I stood in silence as Lara continued packing. She’d developed an effective system by now— this would be her fourth relocation in six years due to the company she worked for. Last night, she’d labeled five large boxes so that each would eventually contain a specific type of personal effect she wished to take with her to the new place. One box would have bedding supplies, another would house books, and yet another would contain knick knacks and other collectibles she’d compiled over years of travel.

         A pile in the corner of the room included items that would end up on a table in the laundry room of the apartment building she was vacating. (These items will then be available for the other residents in the building to take for their own use, should they so choose.) She would scrutinize that pile later and retrieve any item that she decided would be better to retain after all. Finally, a large plastic bag was designated for things she wished to part with forever, and I noted that it was filling up quickly. Her goal would be to have only five large boxes and three suitcases, she’d once explained to me. Anything beyond that, she believes, may lead to overstaying her welcome at the next stop. 

         She jumped between stuffing the boxes and preparing her suitcases; there was a method to the madness, she’d professed. For the suitcases, she started with the bulky items—sweaters, mostly—then moved on to tee shirts (most of which were from live music shows), skirts, and so on. She removed a red-and-white plaid skirt from its hanger and was about to put it in the orange suitcase when she stopped to examine it. “Should I keep this?” she asked, holding it up as if to give me a better vantage point.

         “It always looked lovely on you,” I said.

         She gave it one more look, and decided to add it to the recycle pile. “I think it makes me look like a picnic table,” she explained. I smiled at the absurd comparison, and thought nothing else of the skirt.

         For several hours, I simply watched her, akin to an admirer enjoying a performance by his favorite ballerina. Out of all who have come and gone, the year I’d spent with her had been especially memorable. That she was leaving saddened me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

         She and I had connected immediately as if we had been, as the old saying goes, destined to meet. There was never any hesitation on her part. Well, actually, if I was being completely honest, our first week was actually a bit rough. There was some confusion on her end and momentary disbelief (she always considered herself a “very scientific” person), but, to my delight at that time, there was never any fear. I don’t recall exactly when it was that it became routine for us to be together—when we became as natural as the nose in front of one’s face.

         That night, she went to dinner (for the last time in a long while) at her favorite Italian joint just a couple of blocks away. The following morning, at around ten, the moving company arrived to pick up the boxes, and there was a bit of friendly banter about this being the easiest move they’d done this week. One of them verified that the bed, desk, dinette set, and nightstand were indeed going to Goodwill, and Lara confirmed thusly. The other chided Lara about her either being on the witness relocation program or part of the secret service. He proclaimed that no one—especially a woman— lived this sparsely, otherwise. Lara ignored what I know she would have referred to as veiled misogyny, and explained that she liked to keep things simple.

         The apartment building’s manager, Betsy, came by just when the last box was removed. She was a rotund figure who loved wearing muumuus. Her yellow and red floral print was today’s selection. “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Just wanted you to know your cab’s outside.”

         “Thanks, Betsy,” Lara said. “I’ll be right out.”

         “Sure, honey,” the portly woman responded, and gave Lara a hug. “I’ll let the cabby know.”

         When the door shut, Lara looked around the room, and breathed in deeply, as if trying to discern my scent. “I’m going to miss you,” she said, her eyes wandering. As much as I badly wanted her to, Lara never could see me. None of the others could, either.

         But, I would always find a way to make sure they knew my presence. Generally, it would be by making sounds like knocking on the walls, or moving something ever so slightly so that it would make a scratching noise on the hardwood floor. Some chose to ignore me; others could not sense me at all, despite all my efforts. All would eventually end up leaving, some even breaking their lease agreements to do so. I’m not sure if any of them had ever explained to the building’s management company the real reason for their abrupt departure.

         Lara was the first who could actually hear me speak. Neither of us ever understood how or why. She assured me that this was not psychic by any means—she didn’t hear any other ghosts, after all. At least, not that she had been aware of. Maybe it was kismet, she wondered in the beginning. And we left it at that.

         “I’m going to miss you, too, my dear Lara,” I managed, suddenly seeming unable to recognize my own voice. She smiled, but her tearful eyes betrayed the countenance she’d hoped to present. When she accepted the new assignment that would force her to relocate to Seattle, she’d asked me to come with her, and I explained then that it was not possible. I belonged here, in this apartment, and I could not leave. I don’t know why this was so; it just was.

         “Goodbye, Will,” she said, and looked directly at my favorite corner, near the large window, where she knew I loved to stand. For a brief moment, it was as if our eyes locked and she could actually see me. But, I knew that was not possible. And, just as quickly, she turned around, exited into the hallway, and closed the door behind her.



I peered out the window to study the dark clouds. Springtime in Portland was in full swing, and it was all about rain from this point on. I’d come to appreciate these rainy days, primarily because of the cacophony of sounds that accompanied its occurrence. On especially stormy days, the pitter-patter of the raindrops against the apartment’s sole large window was a welcomed noise. I looked forward to the rain this day would surely bring.

         I was stirred from my reverie when I heard the sound of the key being inserted into the doorknob from outside, and watched the door swing open inwardly. “This one’s a little bit smaller than the one I just showed you, and should be in your price range,” Betsy said, holding the door open. A young woman walked in. She looked to be about college age, which would not be too far-fetched as the building was close to the university, and was a hotspot for students looking for temporary housing. Lara was among the few former residents who had not been a student.

         Lara. I’d have to admit to not having thought of her too frequently since she left six months ago. Those memories had always brought on feelings of melancholy that were unbearable at times, especially as the studio apartment sat empty.

         I watched as the young woman walked around the room, seeming to take in every nook and cranny. Her gaze stopped where I was standing at my favorite corner, and, for a moment, I convinced myself that she could see me. I smiled although I knew the gesture to be fruitless. “Do you think you can give me a few minutes alone in this space?” she asked Betsy. “You know, just to get a good feel.”

         “Sure, honey,” Betsy said. “I’ll be right outside.”  When the building’s manager had shut the door, the young woman walked over to the large window, taking in the sliver of the neighborhood’s scenery the building across the alleyway did not obscure. I remained where I stood and studied her for a moment. She had red hair (Lara’s had been blonde) and was also quite thin (again, just like Lara). I couldn’t help making comparisons. It was all I could do at the moment.

         “What’s your name?” the redhead suddenly asked, still looking out the window.

         I hesitated, and looked out as well, wondering if she was actually addressing someone standing outside. When I realized no one was there, I returned my attention to her, and found her staring at me. Not just in my direction, as I’d immediately thought, but actually at my eyes. “You can see me,” I stammered, meaning for it be a question.

         She nodded, confirming that she can also hear me. “My name is Melinda,” she said, turning to fully face me as she leaned against the glass. “You can call me Mel.”
         
         I lingered in disbelief for a moment, wondering how long it had been since someone had last interacted with me in this manner. It had been way too long. “I’m William,” I finally said, “You can call me Will.”

         “Nice to meet you, Will,” Mel said, and flashed that wonderful smile that I would very quickly come to love.


Word Count: 1,597
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