An Urn Across the State Line

I shiver beneath the unfamiliar floral-patterned bedcovers.

How can I calm my anxious heart? Solitude is a simple antidote. Though once my heart absorbs this remedy, clearing the chaos, loneliness dwells. Now a fresh call for healing persists. A companion’s gentleness, in the way of talk, trust, touch—these relief forms are superlative. Maybe the most wholesome consolation for a heart like mine. Well, perhaps any heart. I had achieved loneliness, maintaining it for the past three weeks since the funeral.

Divorce had been dreadful enough. To lose Elena in matrimony left me in the house, its colorful walls full of torment. She had forbidden me to spend any more of our ample money on her hypersensitive medical care.

“Wally, please save yourself,” my wife had said.

Well, besides the cost of three muted gray interior paint buckets, two brushes, and a tub of spackle, I spent no capital on the house. Nine months after I had conceded to let her go, Elena perished.

And here I am, waiting in her best friend’s bed with my lonely, anxious heart.

Jasmine is an angel—the same rarity as my late ex-wife. Oh, this delightful girl and I had not spoken for over a year until the service. I sobbed, standing in the chapel’s rear. After the celebration of life, hymns, and prayers, my cheeks had darkened the shoulders of my light blue suit jacket. And as family and friends shuffled out, ignoring my tearful agony, Jasmine stopped to pat my damp shoulder. Gently. Deliberately.

Without Elena, I would never love again. My love ended with her last breath. A desperate breath. A breath I learned of over a text message from her father.

Wallace, I am sorry to let you know that…

She truly wanted me to save myself. Self-preservation. But now I learned self-preservation fails under love. Oh, angels invented love. Jasmine had given me her number after we spoke at the reception. I texted her that evening, thanking her for her comfort and apologizing for my tear-stained shoulders. Of course, she responded within moments.

Now, she is “freshening up” in the adjacent bathroom.

For the last three weeks, we texted daily. Me, staring at every muted gray wall surrounding me. Jasmine, sending pictures of her goofy dog, Nugget, and reminding me to smile. Oh, she had invited me to visit her the day after we said our “goodbyes” to our mutual best friend. I had eight years of committed romance to compartmentalize; she had twenty-six years of memories left to herself. Well, this bachelorette spent most of today sharing her favorite “Chronicles of Elena” with me. Why did it take me three full weeks to visit?

Click! The bathroom door juts open.

My host beams—her smile, her eyes, her body. The light pink nightgown is almost too much color for my sorry eyes. From her tiptoes, she slips beneath the bedcovers next to me.

“Mmmm. Much better,” she whispers, her bare shoulder nestling beside mine.

Well, when we spoke ten minutes ago, I told her I could sleep on the leather couch, since Nugget had already sprawled out on the apartment’s lone bed. Jasmine’s bed. But the apartment renter insisted the couch would be too rough on my body after driving all morning in my cramped car to get here. I sat in objection anyway. She stepped next to me to pat my stiff shoulder. Gently. Deliberately. And she clutched my calloused hand, pulling me into the bedroom.

Vanilla scent eases around me. The bed’s owner squirms, and I shift to my side to face her. Propped on one elbow, my lower body trembles.

“Oh no, Wally! What’s wrong?” Jasmine reaches over with a hug, her arm warming my upper back, her breasts pressed against my chest.

I hug back, still trembling. Well, at the moment, speaking honestly eludes me.

“...I’m okay.”

“Aww, Wally. I know…I miss her, too,” she coos.

My shortened breaths strengthen the vanilla aroma. Unsure if seconds or hours have passed, I slide my right hand from her bare upper back, closer to her ribs over the delicate nightgown, and pause at her covered waist. My fingertips melt into the softness.

“Don’t worry. I…” Her teary eyes drift to meet mine. “I’m right here.” She squeezes my back’s bare skin.

Now my lonely heart commands my face to bury into her shoulder. With eyes closed, I accept the grace of her sincere fingers on my neck and her careful kiss next to my ear. My love rests in an urn across the state line. But here I go—trying.

“If there’s anything…” Her voice trails off.

I recede just enough to catch her jade-green eyes in the dim light. She forces a grin, dragging her hand across my shoulder along my upper chest before biting her lower lip.

Can I kiss her? Of course, my brain aims for her lips, but my heart yanks me into pecking her blushing cheek. In the near silence, Jasmine guides her hand under my right arm and squeezes into my back again. Oh, angels read hearts. They detect hollowness, knowing when one is not “okay” even when he says, “I’m okay.”

Pressed skin-to-skin again, her warmth suppressed my trembling. I withdraw—a measly inch—and align my fractured lips with hers, pressing into the unspoken invitation that has tortured me since she typed her number into my phone at the funeral. I taste peaches.

“Mmmm.” My host presses her lips back.

And the euphoric night continued. Jasmine’s wholesome company throughout the day inspired me to expect the next sunrise for a change. The past nine months had been nothing but gray. The past three weeks—extra gray. But instead of sunshine greeting my smiling face, I awoke sniveling. Seconds away from vacating the bedroom to grieve in solitude, I freeze as the floral-patterned bedcovers rustle.

“Hey, Wally?”

My sniveling intensifies into whimpering. I cannot stop. Jasmine reaches over, hugging my far arm, her head snuggled on my shoulder.

“Oh, what’s wrong?”

I press my right palm to my forehead. Can I force honesty out? I huff, letting my chest rise and fall beneath her caress. More vanilla.

“I…I’m listening,” she whispers, leaving a faint kiss on my neck.

Oh, angels give unconditionally. And they know when the recipient lacks enough worthiness to reciprocate. I tried to speak honestly under the bedcovers beside Jasmine. The truth remained the sole item I should have offered. But I am no angel. All her encouragement, care, hospitality—I ruined it with my lie. I should have sustained my simple antidote of solitude.

Within the hour, I leave Jasmine’s one-bedroom apartment, but not before we share a three-second kiss on the lips. I will long to see her again, but I do not deserve an invitation to return—not without her forgiveness. Well, if I had told the truth, she would still have a reason to text me new pictures of Nugget. Reason to remind me to smile. Instead, her silence joins me among my muted gray walls.

How can I calm my anxious heart? Maybe loneliness will have a definitive answer. I will allow it more time while I lull beneath my empty, plain bedcovers.