Memories of Her

I sat in my brown leather armchair with a glass of wine, watching the cat sleep peacefully next to the fireplace. It wasn’t my cat; it was my ex-wife’s cat. In fact, it was practically the only thing I had left to remind me of her. It was the only thing of hers that hadn’t been burned, or moved to her new studio apartment downtown. It slept there now on that old beige rug my father had given me, tinted grey with soot from the fire I kept going every night. It was funny… I had paced along that rug every morning for weeks hoping she would walk back through that door into my arms again. It seemed so stupid now, almost comical how insipid I had become over the past three years. Where once there had been an exuberant and energetic boy, now sat this prematurely aged fossil of a man. Still I drank my coffee on that rug. Sometimes I would trip on its now frayed edge, and spill some. Leaving brown blotches here and there sort of like battle scars. My rug and I had been through a lot together. I had sat on that rug when the pictures of her, and letters from her one by one met their maker in that orangey-yellow glow. I had fallen onto that rug from my chair when I had a bit too much wine and passed out. Or when would just walk across it barefoot to feel the warmth it gave. These were all comforts that the hardwood that covered the floors of my house could scarcely afford to give. Now it was just home to that cat and a sorry looking pair of sandals with broken straps that she liked to play with. Those had been my wife’s too, but like the cat (and unlike the pictures) they remained as a reminder.

Sometimes, I admit; sometimes I get so sad I ply my way through the attic to find that one last picture that the fire had forgotten to take. I never find it of course, one thing I had learned over the years as a psychiatrist was to be thorough with everything. Even things as simple as picture burning must be done with precision and accuracy in my business. I sit up there, with the same old cobwebs stretching from one corner of the ceiling to the other, emptying box after box… and find nothing. Tonight isn’t all that different from most, but this time… this time I think I’ll put down my glass and call it a night. You know, just in case things get out of hand, I really would prefer not to wake up on the floor.

The months flew by. Eat, work, and sleep. That was all I would do, I molded myself into a machine, because machines never made mistake. More importantly though, machines never felt pain… machines never missed their ex-wife’s. Still, everything would remind me of her. The clients I worked with all had marital problems (not a big help). They suffered from strong bouts of depression, followed by acute anxiety issues, hyper-tension, erectile dysfunctions, and self inflicted injuries. I needed a new job or at least a new environment away from all this negativity before I started prescribing myself medication. Eating at the same restaurants they had eaten at together and sleeping in the same bed alone where they had made love. These things were chipping away at my sanity! It had been seven years without her, I needed change… So I moved.

I packed my furniture and knick-knacks into brown cardboard U-Haul boxes, and hired a moving company to take away to a newly built “suburban style” apartment complex just two blocks from my new office on Main St. I had requested a transfer to the children’s psychiatric wing, and moved two floors up into an office with an incredible window view of the city. In fact, I was two blocks away from everything, so I sold the car, and bought a new bed with the money. I didn’t really miss that old Nissan, and the exercise would be good for me. Yet for all the trouble I’d still wake up at night and feel her warm touch against my back in the new bed. I’d wake up in the morning and see her cooking in that new kitchen. I would still say table for two at all the local restaurants they had never fucking been to together. Though it had been nine years now, her image had been fused throughout the circuitry of the mechanized brain I had tried so hard to create. It had been wired into my hard drive, and nailed my engine of a heart.

Then I got the call. It was July second, at about 5:35 a.m. My secretary called to tell me that the… what had she said? “The bitch had finally bought the farm.” She had died in a fatal airplane crash just off the coast of Key West on her way home from a photo shoot. Still, I could feel her long embraces. Could feel the sheer satin nightgowns she would put on after her showers that clung to her in the humid July air. I took a cab to the funeral on the sixth, and stood back from the ceremony with an umbrella to ward off the attack of a mid-summers drizzle. I watched them lower her into the ground, and absently walked over to toss one yellow rose onto the casket. One yellow flower which faded into the mass of red. It was an apology, not a goodbye, because I knew she would never be gone.

I had to move again, get away from it all, and get away from the states. So I packed my stuff again into those cardboard brown U-Haul boxes, and had the movers ship it to London, to my new downtown studio apartment. I’ve been here now for five or so years, and I think she has finally left me. So now, I get out of my car to go for dinner at a new fancy restaurant, and bid you not to marry, unless you’re willing to accept the outcome.
“Can I help you tonight sir?”
“Yes, thank you. Table for two please?”