He put on an uncomfortable sweater made of an acrylic fiber. It was blue. One tone. Patterns were made with alternating thickness and textures. The sleeves were baggy, the body fit well, the neck was perfectly round. He always wore it with the same extra-thin henley underneath, despite the distaste he developed towards undershirts for indiscernible reasons. It felt cumbersome, but it was worth doing for this sweater. He didn’t like acrylic fiber either, but this sweater knew him. Wearing this sweater, he felt like his character could be fully understood. Any stranger looking at him would understand who he is. He put on a pair of blue underwear; he put on his pants that met at a good midpoint between comfortable and figure-flattering. He grabbed his wallet, keys, and made a last-minute decision to wear a hat. It was a simple but well-crafted baseball cap. He felt confident in his decision to wear this outfit - an inviting real depiction of himself. He forgot to shave.
Winter’s cold breath was receding. The sun warmed the pavement, the dirt, and the trees. The occasional gust of wind was all there was to remind him it was technically still Winter. It was beginning to sound like Spring. It’s something he always forgets. The warmer seasons have so much more noise than the cold ones. Everything wakes up. Everything shifts. No more lumps of salt on the sidewalks. No more signs warning walkers of the slick stairways. Kids get sick on the swings at the playground. Parents get sick of watching them. All the Christmas lights have been taken down, besides from the houses who have them up all year - never lit. People stand outside with their cigarettes and they don’t have to shiver. He stands outside with his cigarette. It calms him down. Long breaths in, long breaths out. As it burns his lungs and fills them with tar, it teaches him to regulate his breathing. He considers staying out there. Not going in. Going for a walk instead. Enjoying the fading Winter instead. He can’t. He has to go in. The cigarette is nearing its end. It drops to the ground and he presses down on it with the sole of his shoe - extinguished and pummeled into the ground.
He turns around, walks a couple feet, reaches his hand out to the door’s handle. He gives it a tug. Lighter than he expected it to be, it swings open. His footsteps illuminate the silent room. Clacking on tile. Heads turn and look away. They know why he’s here. They see him so often. They’re acting casual for the others in the room and they’re silently, internally preparing to flip a switch to take themselves from friendly to empathetic, as if they’re mourning the same loss he is. They aren’t. He’s at the counter. He answers questions. He makes the decision they were all ready for him to make. The one they knew he had to make because he couldn’t afford to make another one. He doesn’t want to see it happen. She was still warm. She still looked alive. Her hand was there for him to hold. He wanted to see her with the little bit of life she still had in her. Because he didn’t want to risk feeling regret over not having the courage to see her again. Because he wanted to give one more chance for a spark of hope. No spark. One last goodbye. He left the building, got help making the arrangements he would need to make. They stripped her of the lines of fluids that kept her alive. Switches flipped, plugs pulled. He was glad things were on their way to being over. He was glad he didn’t have to worry anymore.
He sat down at a table in a cafe he hadn’t been to. He could feel the sweater on his body. He listened to people making the decision to get cold drinks instead of hot ones. He decided to wear something lighter tomorrow. And something with warmer colors.
No comments:
Post a Comment