A Fine Day

“Welp, my friend. Gotta tell ya, it is a fine day today. A little dead but….” I chuckle and nod, looking out at the downtown area. This main street that I’d grown fond of. The billowing clouds overhead were the kind that made me feel dwarfed even more in the scheme of things. I lean back in the rickety little metal chair outside the ice cream shop. John and I sat in companionable silence for a while. I bring the now warm soda to my lips, then take a deep inhale, closing my eyes. Even in town, I could smell the first ripe blooms of honeysuckle being pervasive somewhere unseen. My heart swelled for a moment at the memories of being a skinned-kneed, gangly, sweaty street urchin. My gang and I would decimate a honeysuckle bush like we were its natural predator. Talking about boys, plucking the little stems and flowers off, sipping on the sweet nectar, swatting away bees and wasps.

“Did you do anything like that? Run the streets, well…” I shrug, eyebrows raising playfully as I sip. “It wasn’t really the streets, more like the suburbs. I grew up on a cul-de-sac, for crying out loud. Yeah, I know, I know.” I laugh at the disbelieving scoff. “Who’d have guessed I’d become this from such humble beginnings.” I motion over my body and odd outfit, finish my drink, and stand. John stays, laptop open and focused now on something serious. I need to do what I’d come into town for. “I’ll be right back, shouldn’t take too long.” I press my hand to his shoulder, the lightest touch brushing the back of my hand. Then I’m down the street, bag over my shoulder.

I stopped by the bookstore first. I need to grab the newest release and a couple of journals. And a girl can never have enough pens, am I right? No, not the pens, the colored pencils, and a box of charcoals, those call to me. I dust it off and tuck it under my arm. The books I select aren't the newest release. No, I still haven’t gotten around to finishing my TBR list. My type B chaos doesn’t let me finish much, but I still hold to it. I go down the shelf I’d left off with, these 90’s romance novels had consumed this year for me. The fact that I truly didn’t know if I’d be picking up a novel that would leave me in tears or one that would be so wildly bad, it was still good. I take my pretty floral paper bag at the self- checkout and shove it inside mine. Then it’s back out into the fray.

I stop by the shoe store, get some socks, and try on a few of the pumps. A bright green pair that reminds me of all those 70’s green palettes that mashed up Kelly Greens, with yellow green and, oddly enough, mint occasionally. It breaks my heart to put them back, but I know my feet would be killing me in a couple of hours of wearing them. I opt for the more practical footwear. Some roach-stomping black boots with studs up the back. Biker boots, still my favorite.

The rest of the hour, I take my time, wandering, window shopping. I don’t need a new dress, that’s for damn sure. I pass by the glass, and an elegant navy wrap catches my eye; for a moment, I think John would love to see it on me. Maybe next date night. The community garden comes into view, and I linger there. The faint scent of tulips and daffodils wafts towards me as the wind starts to pick up in gale force fashion in the Midwest. Easter will be soon; it looks positively enchanting at the moment. A bit overgrown with a natural rather than manicured aesthetic. Whoever had done the theme of “Secret Garden” pulled it off in spades.

A sound up ahead draws my attention. There’s that damn ringing in my ears, the sound that preludes what I know my nervous system is drawing me back towards. John. I break away from the gated flowers and sprint as fast as I can back to the ice cream shop. But John is on the ground, tipped out of his chair as the panic floods me. I skid to a halt behind him, my bag falling off my shoulders as my hands shake, trying to be gentle with him. I don’t hear what’s going on around me, other than the wind is strong enough now to whip the tendrils of my hair that have come undone into my eyes. I blink past the sting of it.

“Shhh, it’s alright, easy does it. I’m here.” I say quietly as one of my hands goes to steady his shoulders, the other goes firmly under his neck and head as I pull him up from his sidelong collapse. “There we go.” I breathe a sigh of relief as I get him up. Then, the sudden, sickening give of his spine as my hands grasp harder, I try to hold it all together, to stop the horrifying inevitable. My hands close around the dry bone, bone that had been dry a long time, and the skull clicks off as it bounces. I scramble after it as reality starts to break around me. My hands shake as I pick it up and turn back around to place it back, but… I drop it instead. “Mnnnaaggg..” A groan of despair escapes me. I thought I’d forgotten how to make. I blink back the tears as I grind my hands and knees into the pavement, as I try to keep what little lunch I had still in me. The cold sweat breaks out over my body as I force myself to take in cool, spring breaths.

My eyes fix on the “lovely” little Main Street that had “been a bit dead”. It was all dead. Papers and leaves swirl in the updraft of the abandoned street. The window that holds the pretty blue dress is grimy, even from my crouched position here down the way. I didn’t pick up any new releases, not because of my TBR list, but… because there were never going to be any new releases. The ones still under the sign at the bookstore were the only stories I hadn’t read yet. Would be the only new stories, ever. I hadn’t brought myself yet to read them. And I’d picked the pencils and charcoals over the pens, not because I didn’t want them. But because they’d likely have dried out a long, long time ago. My new boots feel heavy on my feet. I didn’t get them because I was a practical girly, I got them because they were solid and would last a few hundred miles, if I kept them treated and repaired.

I force another two deep breaths in as my gaze floats where the garden peaks out behind the library. There was no “Secret Garden” committee for Easter this year. Those blooms were just ones I’d planted last fall, hoping they would take. Now, as I come back through, I get to see them—see John. Tears slip down my cheeks, but I’m still too frozen to move. John has been here for 2 years, at least. At first, he was in one of the duplexes off Main Street, sitting outside on his patio. Gone, of course, like everyone I’d met for the last 4 years. I later moved him outside the ice cream shop under the awnings and secured him. Over time, he’d become more distinguished, less sinewy and more palpable. I knew his name from the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, and his birth year was a couple older than mine. That’s why I chose him. Some of the town was still here, same as John, these past 7 years now. Since it all happened. His laptop had never worked- the screen dusty and black. The nausea finally passes as I slowly kneel up.

My bag is my knapsack as I pull it over my shoulders, and my rifle had clattered to the ground in my haste to look away from the ruin of my friend. The bile rises suddenly again at what’s in front of me. I don’t look back down. I think for a moment, I should bury him. The other part is sheer terror and grief, though, so I know I have to move. My feet find themselves under me, and I push myself up with a gurgling sob that gets swallowed hard back down.

“I’m sorry,” I say, pushing myself up to stand straight and adjusting my pack. “I should have….” I sniff and wipe my face, looking straight ahead as I step around the skeleton remains. “We had a good run, didn’t we?” I whisper as I amble down the street. I hear something padding along behind me. Dogs, probably. I don’t think I’d been all that quiet. They were still around, but they didn’t come near me. I go to the dress store, yank the blue one down, shove it in my pack, then to the shoe store, I grab those terrible green pumps. Then I go to John’s duplex, lift up some floorboards, and get the stash I’d found. It was just a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I take it, popping the top and swigging it down as I leave town.

Later that night, I find myself burning a fire in a barrel outside a gas station that had been one of my haunts. I’ve toasted many things –John, my friend, the last shred of my sanity, most like. My foot taps and wiggles in the firelight as I sway in the lounge chair, watching the orange swirl and spark in the reflection of glossy patent leather heels. My mind drifts; maybe I’m still crying sometimes through the booze. Pulling my jacket up, I lean back and close my eyes, letting the heat and crackle of the fire fade everything for a moment, until…

“Hey, there.”