| flashquake presents Open Fiction:  Epilogue |
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She smiled when she opened the door the way she always used to when company arrived. “Hi, come on in,” she said, leaning in to my hug and the kiss on her cheek. She returned the hug tentatively; she did not return the kiss. I could smell the tangerine soap we both loved, and she had washed her hair, but then she always did. It was cramped in the narrow entranceway. Socrates joined us, rubbing up seductively against my leg, eyeing the opened door. “Oh, we can’t let him get out!” she said. She closed the door, keeping the cat away with her bare foot. Her toenails had been freshly painted a deep red. “He's been in such a mood lately.” I took this opportunity to move into the living room. “It's probably the winter. I think he gets that seasonal depressive thing," I said. "Maybe I'll take him to a tanning salon for his birthday," she said. I laughed a little. Everything in the apartment looked the same, except now that it was mid-winter the low slant of morning light, coming through the blinds from the late January sun, created horizontal patterns on the Degas print hanging on the opposite wall. The woman in the painting washed herself peacefully with a door slightly ajar behind her. I felt like a voyeur. I noticed two boxes on the couch. She came in carrying the cat and said, “Well, here’s the last of it, all packed and ready. I decided to just do it for you to make it, you know, easier.” Then she stood aside, as if not to block the path between them and me. Socrates wanted down so she let him go and put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, careful not to stand in any particular way. A long strand of her blonde hair curled like an upside down question mark on the front of her black sweater, around and under her left breast. “Thanks,” I said. I looked for something else to focus on. Behind her in the kitchen on the table, next to a vase of dried wild flowers and under a floral print placemat, were a coffee cup, the remains of half a grapefruit in a bowl, and a plate with egg yolk partially buried under a piece of toast and some scraps of hash brown potato. The phone rang. It was her best friend Gloria. “Can I call you back in five minutes?” she said. When she hung up the phone I noticed she still wore the garnet ring. Socrates jumped up on the couch and into one of the boxes. “Socrates, get out of there now, you crazy cat. As you see, he still loves boxes,” she said. She started to move toward the couch but I had already done the same and we stopped for a moment, looked at each other uneasily, and after she took a step back I moved toward Socrates and lifted him out. I pet him a few times before he wiggled out of my hands and thumped to the floor. He began a slow stroll into the kitchen. “Yeah, he always did love boxes. What a nut,” I said. I stacked the two boxes and lifted them up, and it was a great relief that they weren’t as heavy as they looked. “Well,” I said. “Here, let me get the door for you,” she said. “Thanks.” As we walked to the door I scanned the bookcase on the way out, more out of habit than anything else, and I saw that my copy of The Confederacy of Dunces was still on the top shelf. She noticed. We smiled but neither one of us said anything. She opened the door and as I brushed past her she told me to take care of myself. “You too,” I said. I turned and we looked into each other’s eyes, me holding the boxes between us as if they contained all the things I’d left unsaid. |
© 2001 by Pete MacDonald |