b to b

“Today is April 31st.”

“I need laundry detergent, food, and how about a… you’ve been so good to me. I’ve been so sick. I’m sorry.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

“Cause of what I’m putting you through.”

“You’re sick. You don’t need to apologize. I can leave if I want to.”

“Do you want to?”

“No, I want to be right here.”

Her hair is blonde with a tint of strawberry, her eyes are crescents of clear ocean, and the rest is Texas prairie on the most beautiful day, when there’s money in your pocket, no one is after you, and the sky is a canvas that cannot be ignored until you realize it has erased any thoughts of money or fortune. His hair is slicked back and black, and an ice pack wrapped in a towel sits on top of his head because she put it there, like the chicken broth in his belly and the Advil on his tongue. He seldom opens his eyes, but when he does, the sun and her are one as she lies by his side, gently stroking his forehead on a warm April afternoon in Southern California. He asks, “Maybe we should get a twelve-pack of beer?”

She asks if he’s being serious.

“No,” he whispers. “Of course not, no. I’m just.”

“What?” she asks.

“Maybe today should be my last… I’m not sure if I have enough pills to get me through the night.”

“You would drink if I weren’t here,” she says.

“I’m just being honest with you.”

“Maybe I should leave?”

“Maybe.”

He no longer feels like a burden when she leaves, because he is selfish like that. He suffers and does not want to inflict it on others, but he always ends up making it worse. Always, because you’re trying to take the easy route and are distrustful of people who are so kind, but really, you are lying. It is you who is distrustful. You always know what you’re going to do or what your intentions are.

People need space, and don’t say it. People say I love you and don’t mean it. He tries not to say anything, but he loves her and is sick. She doesn’t want him to drink, and the last thing she said was, “How can I trust you?” before grabbing her pink toiletry bag and sandals. How can anyone trust him? When he talks, his words mean as much as fiction does to the general public. All anyone has are their words and their actions, and even then, he lies there. His head is under a pillow in bed, with an icepack she found for him.

The taste of her tears is something she was not expecting. She thought she’d smell laundry and eat food, perhaps home-cooked food, but she goes home as he sketches on a pad and listens to the birds out his window, and sees the branches where they sing. It is nature, but it does not compare to the beauty of the woman who has just left. The one who spent money and decided to be by his side. She says, “If she wants to leave, she can,” but wants to be in his room, happy with her husband.

The night before, they had nightmares. He saw monsters, and she was with him at a gas station, asking if he could grab a twelve-pack.

“So my dream was real?”

“No,” he whispers. “No.”

He eats the soup she has left him, and smells her shirt when he has lost all of his energy. He sees himself buying detergent, but also grabbing beer. He told her he wouldn’t, but the image is enough to give him a panic attack. He sweats while she cries. He is a scumbag. He is sick. He is human. She is human. What he wouldn’t do to get her back over here, but his head is between heated bricks, and he hopes she understands that he will call her, but when he looks out the window, he sees that it is already dark. He can hear the crickets, but that does not make it night. Night is when she is in his arms, and life is with her. He’s getting healthy for himself, but also so he can be there for her the way she was for him, without being an asshole about it. He does not know if he believes in god, but when he looks into her eyes, he can see why some people might, and when she laughs, it is a reason to do anything, no matter how serious or ridiculous. He’s a bad seed, but all seeds can turn into something wonderful, and if she needs shade, he wants to grow and block the sun; if she wants someone to talk to, he wants to be open. He does not drink; he writes a letter.

b.

Light bounces off trees that I don’t think anyone can accurately describe. Maybe in paintings, but I have yet to see it. I look out the window, forget about describing things, and am reminded that we are surrounded by beauty. There is an urge to do what I do, but, like all urges, it fades as the sun falls and the top tree branches sway, grabbing our attention as if this won’t happen again, but the sun rises, feeding the roots in the dirt that allow the top branches to grow past what we can see.

I wish I could write something more romantic, but like the part of the tree that still gets the sunshine, it is the roots—endlessly expanding, searching, doing whatever it can to keep the tree alive—that feed that part of me. I just wanted to write you something.

b.

He goes into the kitchen and holds her. There is laundry detergent and food on the counter. Lots of apples, but all he can think about is how smart, compassionate, and beautiful this woman is. He forgets the letter, but she finds it in his pocket the next morning, and though it is made of his words, she is happy he kept his and kept her nightmare a dream.

“Who likes apples?”

“Meighhh.”