Floater

I stared at the crumpled shopping bag on the landing before me. It was the fastest I’d ever destroyed $300 worth of anything. I stood like a mall mannequin, frozen and uncomprehending. The last ten seconds played on repeat in my mind.

I had just completed a ‘grocery’ trip and was hauling a shopping bag filled with the inedible. Today’s flavor of impulse buying? Candles. And I’d learned they were equals parts smellable and breakable.

To be fair, I’d also picked up groceries. I was just planning on bringing in the first non-grocery ‘grocery’ bag and tucking it into one of the spots I kept secret from my fiancé.

But the floater apparently had other plans.

A grey squiggle at the edge of my periphery had made a sudden appearance while I’d been struggling to open the front door. My hand slipped; my arm, already overburdened with my hefty prize, betraying me and the innocent items I’d purchased.

Out came the floater and down went the candles.

The ten second replay abruptly ended in my mind’s eye as I heard bounding footsteps from inside the house.

That’d be Frank.

And here, on the ground before me, was a direct breach in the promise I’d made him.

I blinked rapidly, my eyesight going misty. The small grayish squiggle in my vision seemed to expand and grow until the bag and its shattered contents became indistinct. Like a fog roiling across the ocean of my eye, the floater obscured my vision.

I dropped to the ground, feeling around blindly for the bag, hoping I wouldn’t cut myself on any broken glass. Maybe I could push the bag into the hedges before Frank arrived?

No such luck.

“Dia, are you okay?” He asked as he opened the front door.

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my filmy eyes. My sight cleared, and I could see my fiancé’s concerned expression. He once had the classic boy-next-door look but nowadays, Frank was looking more unemployed-and-thirty by evidence of the unshaven scraggles on his chin. At least he still had his boyish blonde curls.

“What fell,” he asked, raking a hand through those springy coils. “It sounded like you broke ten jars of salsa.”

I plastered a kid-caught-in-the-candy-jar kind of smile on my face. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too mad this time. Even though there wasn’t supposed to be a ‘this time’ about seven times ago.

Oops.

I looked down at the evidence, knowing that my gaze would trigger his own trailing one. I let out a little gasp of surprise when I saw that the landing was bag-free. Glass-free. Candle-free. I must’ve managed to push the bag and broken candles over the side of the cement walkway after all.

“Not sure...” I replied, bringing my gaze back to my fiancé's, “I was just getting the door open to bring in the bags.”

I didn’t enjoy hiding things from Frank, but he’d grown overbearing with our finances ever since he lost his job last year.

“You want help?” He asked. He must’ve believed me, since he was looking around the neighborhood for any sign of a loud disturbance.

“No, no,” I put my hands on his chest, attempting capture his full attention. I didn't need him inspecting. I pointed to the set of gaming headphones looped around his neck. “You go back to having fun. Let me shoulder the burden.”

I offered a meager show of flexing my biceps before pushing him back through the threshold. He gave a humorous sniff, then headed back downstairs to his gaming den.

Now that was an addiction, I thought. As soon as I felt Frank was firmly out of the picture, I sprang into action. I leaned over the walkway and inspected the hedge. No bag, no glass, no candles, nada.

Had I hallucinated the whole thing?

I darted back to the SUV, and like a rabid housewife on Black Friday, I flung the contents of the groceries about, a cucumber flying here, shampoo squirting there. But there was no sign nor scent of the candles.

It was as if they’d been blinked out of existence.

Maybe I’d simply imagined making that stop to the uptown scents store before doing the grocery pickup? Maybe this was a lucid dream, and I was still out cold in bed? I’d been craving a tiny morsel of luxury after Frank had run us through our latest household financials. We wouldn't be able to honeymoon if we kept up our shopping habits. He’d said, ‘our habits,’ but he’d really meant my habits. And he said it in a tone that was meant to drive guilt-laced nails into his impulsive-shopper of a fiancé.

I passed over the entire front yard, the passengers' seats, the car trunk, and the landing at least three more times before giving up. It was time to cut my losses and bring in the remaining groceries. I busied myself, then, storing the jumbled mess of household supplies, hoping the bland normalcy of the chore would calm me down.

Guilt still churned in my stomach.

As I finished unloading the final bag, I felt a sudden, sharp stinging sensation in my eye. I crunched my lids together, willing my tear duct to do its duty. The pain was at first brisk, then excruciating. I attempted to rub my eye, but the dollop of obtrusive pain nearly sent me to my knees.

I raced to the bathroom, clutching my stinging eye. In the mirror, I slowly peeled back my eyelids. I found a plume of red filling in the white space of my eye. It was as if a tiny abstract painter had taken up residence in my retina, using the whites of my eye like their own personal canvas. Only they weren’t using paint as a medium.

They were using my blood.

I dug around the reddening space of my eyeball, my nails tactfully scraping until I finally plucked a tiny piece of something jagged. I squinted, trying to make out the miniscule debris. It looked mostly clear, only slightly clouded.

It was a sliver of broken glass.

When I looked back in the mirror, I saw it again. The strange fragment that drifted at the edge of my periphery. The floater.

“That's it,” I told mirror Dia, her eye looking shot to hell. “Time for a trip to the eye doctor.”

*

The optometrist checked my eyes for any signs of permanent damage. Lucky for me, the scrapes in my eye were superficial and the blood in the whites of my eye cleared up in a few days. When I asked, the doctor assured me over and over again that the little floater was a perfectly normal part of aging vision. Definitely not some type of microscopic parasite tunneling into my brain and making me imagine I’d bought and then dropped over $300 worth of candles.

Just another joy of being over thirty. Spots manifesting in my vision and along with fears of early onset dementia.

To stamp out the worry seed at its root, I started to envision my floater in a large sunhat, sipping some fruity cocktail, dipping its tiny tendrils into the soft, gelatinous pool that was my eye.

“You’ve got a freeloader living on eye-land time,” Frank joked, teasing me after I described the fantasy to him during our daily ritual of opening the mail.

I snickered, unable to help but imagine my curly-haired fiancé in the same getup.

“How many interviews this week,” I asked.

“None,” he replied, stiffening. He tore open an envelope with a particular vitriol. He must’ve sensed the synaptic connection I’d had between the word ‘freeloader’ and his own state of unemployment. I grabbed the letter from him, grasping at his hands, hoping he’d feel the apology even if I didn’t say it aloud.

It had been a year since he was let go. No, it wasn’t his fault they’d closed one of the few schools in town, and there were more teachers than positions. But he’d only applied to three places and had only had one interview since then. He said he was picky about employers, but something told me Frank was in a bit of a spiral.

As the only income-provider, I didn’t have that luxury.

And no, it wasn’t Frank’s fault that my career had started to take off while his was effectively ending. Sometimes I enjoyed being the breadwinner, breaking glass ceilings, and subverting outdated gender norms. But the extra salary would’ve at least given us options like vacations and proper birthdays and maybe even splurges every so often.

I picked up the letter he’d opened, letting my fiancé cool off. Inside were two sheets, the first was just a title page, which displayed my name and address. On the second sheet, however, I saw the clean red lettering.

OVERDUE BILL.

Damn. I’d forgotten to update my mailing address to my work address. After I’d promised him that the card had been cancelled, Frank had almost intercepted proof of the contrary.

I rubbed my eyes, nervous, and the little floater made a surprise appearance in the corner of my vision.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said quietly.

“What?” I muttered, not listening. I was trying to figure out how to shove the bill into my pocket without catching his attention. But Frank was staring distantly, his face tight and expression glassy. The speck in my eye seemed to grow blotchier, my vision becoming more and more blurred.

“I might as well be a freeloader. A floater. A leech,” Frank spat the last word.

My vision went so hazy I could no longer make out the writing on the credit card bill. All that remained was the vague white shape I held in a tightly pinched grip.

“You’re not.” I replied, closing my eyes, trying to will away the floater. When I reopened my eyes, sight finally crystalline, I saw there were tears in Frank’s.

“I know you’re trying, Frank. This year is just... a blip on the story of our lives.”

Frank swiped at his tears, gaze flicking to mine. He started, looking like he’d seen a ghost, and reached out to pull my head closer. I tried to move back but faltered at the seriousness in his tone when he told me to hold still. Frank examined my face, staring deeply into my eyes, guiding my head to tilt this way or that.

“What is it,” I asked. My anxiety was growing, and I secretly wondered if he had seen the overdue bill and was playing a mind-game with me. Frank was, when he wanted to be, the king of bestowing guilt.

After a moment, Frank released my head, his sandy brows furrowing. “Your eyes... they looked really red for a moment. I thought you were bleeding again.”

My hands immediately went to my face. My eyes hadn’t hurt, but my vision had been fuzzy a moment before.

“But I realized you weren’t bleeding.” Frank continued, “It looked like you had red writing in your eyes… Anyways, it’s gone now.”

I hopped up, scurrying to the nearest mirror to inspect it for myself. I looked at mirror Dia and her eyes were normal and healthy. Frank was clearly losing his mind. That or... I returned to the kitchen, my heart in my throat.

Frank was holding the overdue bill in his hand.

“I-I can explain.” My voice quivered.

Frank barked a laugh. “Explain a blank letter?”

He tossed the bill to the table. The tri-folded white sheet floated to the tabletop. Where there had once been a statement of red-inked warnings, charges, and late fees, was a blank page. I gripped it, flipping the parchment. Both sides were void of any ink, any lettering, any thing.

Just like the candles, I thought. They, too, had vanished when Frank had been about to discover my continued shopping habits.

But... I hadn’t actually bought the candles... had I?

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to clear my mind. I must’ve also imagined the bill. This latest scare was just a hallucination of my fears arriving via US postal.

Paranoid. That was the word. I was growing paranoid.

I took a few deep breaths. Once I calmed, my fear was traded for indignance. If Frank wasn’t so intent on guilting me over every purchase, then I wouldn’t have this horrible feeling about every tiny swipe of my card. And why was I raking myself over the proverbial coals? If Frank could have a year to find a new job, then I could have a few incidents with my credit cards within that year too.

Besides, whose money was I spending anyways?

Not his.

And it wasn’t like I wanted to stay in debt. But I worked so hard to provide - why couldn’t I enjoy spending money on things I wanted? I’d still do my best to manage my spending habits, but Frank could dictate our budget when he started contributing.

In the meantime, Frank would need to turn a blind eye to some of my faults because, well... wasn’t that marriage?

*

I dripped the cool saline into my eyes, each drop causing me to flinch. My eyes had grown puffy and red-rimmed from the constant rubbing and debris. My little floater had grown active – hardly a day went by when my vision didn’t turn gray and hazy. Every time I thought I'd made a decision to buy, buy, buy, the little floater would appear, turning my purchases into phantasmagoria.

I couldn't even look at my bank information to cross reference my seemingly unreliable memories. Every time I opened the app on my phone, the speck in my vision dotted my view like a monotone firework finale. I couldn't hope to make out a single decimal.

Plop. Sting. Another saline drop for my ravaged eyes.

"Babe," Frank said from the bed, "Did anyone reach out to you as my reference this week?"

"Um… I don't think so…." I'd gotten several calls but had a habit of sending all unknown callers straight to the voicemail void.

"You don't think so, or you don't know?" Frank asked.

Drop. Sting. And grit my teeth through the pain.

"Why don't you check my phone, if you're so worried?" I called.

No response.

Patting away the saline and tear mixture that trickled down my cheek, I started my beauty routine. I'd bought new makeup designed for sensitive skin. I could hardly stand putting anything on my eyes these days, but I was also getting annoyed with all the comments on 'how tired' I looked at work when I went sans eye makeup. I was desperate for a coverup.

I'd just finished my face when I saw Frank approaching in the mirror’s reflection. Mirror Frank looked pissed.

"What?" I asked, noting his mood. "Did someone actually call me to check references?"

He shook his head, a slow, minute motion.

"What is it?" I asked again, my guilt landing on the expensive makeup.

"I don't know, Dia," Frank replied, his voice thick. “How's paying down your credit card going?”

I froze.

“Not good, by the sound of the collection agents who’ve been blowing up your phone,” he continued.

It took me all of two seconds to put it together. Frank had been listening to my voicemails and… the bank must've called…

But I hadn’t bought anything... Right?

But what if those trips had happened? What if I hadn't been hallucinating? What if all that money was spent and I'd racked up enough debt to give Dave Ramsey a heart attack?

"I can't believe you, Dia," Frank said, his words slicing me to my soft, gooey center. "Over fifteen-thousand dollars on your card... You-"

He paused, drawing a deep breath.

"You lied to me, Dia." Frank's voice broke, shattering as surely as those candles once had.

I mumbled something incoherent, looking for any way out of the conversation. The two versions of reality were combining painfully in my mind. In one version I'd made all of those purchases and in another they’d never happened.

No, I realized. They had happened. The evidence had just disappeared.

I clutched my head, my vision starting to blur. Frank's face turned a murky gray in the mirror. I couldn't even make out his well-defined boyish curls, my floaters once again shielding me from the source of my shame.

Tears pooled, further clotting my view. These damn floaters.

Frank remained silent. His blurry image stayed fixed, the floaters like the moon during a solar eclipse. I turned around, to look at the real him, not this nebulous mirror Frank.

But I couldn't see him.

Where my fiancé stood was a grayish blob of congealed floaters. They had coalesced in my eyes to block him from my view, their veiny lines blotting out every detail, every piece of the man I loved.

I closed my eyes. They wouldn’t help me see any more clearly now.

An indiscriminate amount of time passed. I don't know whether Frank stayed or left. All I heard was his reverberating silence.

Finally, when the emotions grew overbearing, I decided to open my puffy eyes. To at least face reality for what it was. To apologize and maybe agree to see a psychiatrist.

But Frank wasn't there.

I searched the house for him, called his phone, which buzzed on our headboard.

There was no sign of my fiancé.

After brainstorming locations he’d go during a fight and grand gestures to entice him back, my eyes started to sting again. But the pain wasn’t from shedding tears. I felt the familiar irritation of having a foreign object lodged in my eye. I began to massage the corners, trying to find the source of my misery.

A moment later, my fingers pinched a tightly coiled piece of… string? No, it was too coarse and defined. I held it up to the light.

It was a strand of curly blond hair.

Frank's hair.

Sometime later, I realized Frank wasn’t coming back.