My bones have begun to creak like the floorboards. I wake up at all hours of the night? Day? Only to be stiff as a corpse, too stiff to move. My unwashed hair now bares similarities to the dirty, drool-stained pillow cases that haven’t been changed in almost a year. I’m stopped every time I try. It’s been two springs, and the sweat leaking off of my nearly bed-ridden, rotting body won’t go away, even with the cracked window wide open. 4:00 AM. The blinking from my alarm clock is making me sick. I feel hungover, although I couldn’t tell you the last time I went out. I put the far too big hoodie on as I stumble out of bed. It’s a nauseating shade of orange. Carhartt. It reeks like ash now, covered in burn stains. In the hallway I hear something. At least, I think. It’s too dark to see. But how lucky would I be? The bathroom’s a mess. There’s a framed picture on the wall; One thing I’ve left untouched.
“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?'’ April 15th, 1998, written underneath it.
In the picture there’s a handsome young man, twenty-something with his arm around someone unrecognizable. She has short brown hair and her eyes are glazed with the look of puppy love. She smells like peonies. She goes out on Thursdays to get fresh bread from the bakery- boulangerie. She loves living in the cheapest spot in Paris, not very far from Montmartre now. It’s okay, isn’t it? Because he’s here. He’s here he must be. Down the dark hallway, he is turning on the lights. He’s home from work! I’m so glad. And he brought me fresh berries! How lucky am I?
I feel myself start to sweat again. This time, I’m on the old tile bathroom floor, dry heaving into the toilet. There’s nothing in my body to puke up but stomach bile. I stand up slowly and head out the bathroom door and towards the kitchen, trying to avoid the framed pictures on all the walls. Pictures of the handsome young man with his brown hair, standing in front of the New York City Met. Further down, there's one of his green eyes matching the unrecognizable women's evening dress. I can’t stand the silence of this lonely house. I decide to put on jazz music. This way I don’t have to think about any words I hear. I don’t have to think about anything but pouring my cereal. This place that I’m in was once home. I can see the woman in the photographs, picking flowers on her walks to put in thrifted vases scattered around their house. I can see the picture perfect couple painting the walls.
“Well what about this shade?”
“Buttermilk? You can’t paint bathroom walls yellow.”
Ready, white walls surrounding them. Boxes stacked in the middle of the living room. An air mattress on the floor.
“I was thinking about this for the kitchen. It’s called Pacific Blue. It’ll look good with the backsplash.”
“It’s too beachy I think.”
I feel sick again. I can’t escape the stink of decay. I didn’t even notice the wallpaper has begun peeling. Maybe because of the mold that grew within the last few years, because of a leak I forgot about fixing; Or that I didn’t care to fix. In the pantry, there’s nothing but Golden Graham cereal. The man had gotten this personally mailed to him from his brother in America. There were also crackers, a jar of peanut butter I remember searching hours for, walking up and down the backstreets of Paris to find, and European snacks I wouldn’t eat because I still couldn’t read the labels on them.
While the cereal was the only thing still edible in the pantry, I couldn’t touch it. That’s his. Won’t he be hungry when he’s home? I need to go grocery shopping. Silly me. I will get dressed and I will get food. I will clean up this crusty apartment. I need cigarettes. 7:00AM
The sun is coming up now. I’d usually close the curtain and crawl back into bed. I’d curl into a ball and burrow under the ground waiting for days and weeks and months so I could erode and turn into a beautiful stone. A priceless gem that is priceless regardless of its jagged edges or the dirty pile of shit it came from. People would see that and be understanding. But for now, I am getting in the shower, and the water is piercing through my thin skin, cleansing me from the inside out. My matted hair doesn’t smell like mildew or cigarette smoke right now. It smells like peonies.
I get out once the hot water and steam starts to make me feel light-headed. I can’t help but laugh as I’m getting dressed, finding the wine stained white blouse in my closet, laying next to a trash bag full of clothes I meant to donate two springs ago. I remember that handsome man spilling his Merlot all over it, the woman who I’m starting to recognize hollering. They were sat outdoors. A patio table with a view of the Eiffel Tower shimmering. That’s right! How could I have forgotten? Today is our anniversary! I grab the newspaper off my front porch to make sure, as the calendar in my kitchen still says June, 2001. À la une du 7 mai 2002. Headlines May 7th, 2002. I take a quick glimpse at my horoscope, the french politics that I care about, a past obituary page, and the Hollywood section. I make our bed, brush my teeth with his toothbrush, and head out the door. Still feeling achy, still feeling like a zombie, but now with something to wake up for.
It’s around 9ish now? The walk is difficult with my now too skinny body nearly toppling over with every step on the rough stones and brick roads. There are people walking their dogs, sleeping on the street, riding their bikes, some in pearls, some with holes in their clothes. We’re all the same aren’t we? The woman with her basket of fresh pain au chocolat and market veggies could have experienced motherhood like the older woman across the street, who is hanging her clothes to dry from a washline hung outside her window. Maybe the man sitting on a bench reading overrated literature, and the girl in a long skirt wobbling down a rough cobblestone road have experienced a similar grief. Maybe they both have the favorite color blue.
Arriving at a convenience store, it is now 10h30 du matin the shop tellers clock says. I pick up two packs of cigarettes, an imported “Times Magazine,” a stale croissant, and a cheap coffee. My very own french cafe experience.
By my third cigarette and the last drop of my coffee, I’m at the supermarche. Now I remember coming here two or three times a week before. While I’m there I get a pack of cubed beef, a baguette, potatoes, carrots, different fruits, odds and ends. I will make beef stew for our anniversary. That’s our favorite. While I start to check out, the regular cashiers start to talk to me like we always used to do when I came in. Although, they asked me stuff like, “How are you doing? Are you okay? I’m always here.”
They must not remember who I am. I must be unrecognizable to them too. I’m sickly pale and my eyebags look like the craters on the moon. I’m a wolf in sheep's clothes. As I’m taking my bags, they say, “Au revoir! Nous sommes là pour vous.”
They definitely do not remember who I am. On the walk back home, I have the perfect view of Montmartre. We are not very far anymore, little Jeanne. Our favorite poem. He’d be home soon.
Getting home a bit quicker than it took me to get to the store, I cleaned up the place. I threw all the trash out, wiped down surfaces, and lit his linen lavender incense. 1:15 PM.
I went to the bedroom and put on the wine stained white blouse. I think it’ll make him laugh. My hair is dry now, silky smooth like velvet curtains. I cut my finger while I was peeling the potatoes. There were blood drops on the cutting board… when has a little blood hurt anyone? I wipe my finger on my blouse next to the grape tinted stain. I actually go outside to smoke, not to risk stinking up the house again. I check a phone that I forgot I even had. There are dozens of messages. Texts, voicemails, and missed calls. They’re from old friends, family, his family, asking me, “Are you okay?”
What’s the password for this phone again? I haven’t even seen it in months. The bubbling from the boiling pot on the stove signals it’s time to go inside and throw the rest of the vegetables in. I set the phone aside. With the chopping done and boiling subsided, the silence starts to eat at me like a possession. What if he’s late? Will he even show? My guts are bubbling. It’s your anniversary. Of course he’ll be here! I’ll put on some music in the meantime. I decide to play a mixtape that’s labeled. Our first valentines day. Feb. 14th 1996. The first song to play is “I’ll be Seeing You.” Billie Holiday. 5:55 PM
He should be here any minute now. The food is done. I made our bowls, buttered some biscuits, made the table, and poured our wine. Tick, Tick, Tick. The clock makes me so anxious I could rip it off the wall and slam it to the ground.
“He’ll show.” I whisper to myself, waiting. Suddenly, I hear something. A door creak open, then shut. Footsteps. But it isn’t the front door. Something is coming down the hallway, still too dark to see. It’s coming towards me now. There he is. My handsome man, looking very rough. His head is now bald in some spots. His green eyes are now bloodshot red. His skin is peeling down his arms, and it’s more green and brown than it was last year. The decaying smell of flesh must be putrid; but all I smell is the scent of evening dew wisping in the grass outside, and the bouquet of dead roses in his hands. He’s stumbling towards me with a limp, handsome as ever.
There’s a hole in his chest. He’s confused by my confusion. There’s inaudible words coming out of his mouth in mumbles, but I understand everything. Oh, that’s right. This isn’t wine on my shirt. Two springs ago my husband was shot while we were sitting down at an outdoor restaurant, celebrating our elopement. May 7th, 2000. I held him as he took his last breaths, screaming for someone to help us. This was his blood. I started to cry, and he wiped my tears. For now, he wouldn’t remind me of the night after his burial, or anything I did after that. Swaying together to the music, he would just hold me until the sun rose. How lucky am I?
