THE  27Th  EDITIOn

You find her in a cafe this time. She isn’t dressed for the weather but she never is, and you think it's part of her charm. Not that it matters here, in a heated cafe, steaming coffee cup in her lap without a sip taken. She’s not here for coffee. 

            Never once do her eyes reach you, even as you approach her; take the cup from her hand, take her out to the parking lot, and leave her to stand by the passenger door as you fish out your keys. Your breaths don’t match out in the cold winter morning—yours, a jet of heat from the pulse in your neck, hers nothing but a weak exhale at room temperature. Your vision mists as you look at her beside you in the car, and you vaguely think you love her for it, if you could call this love. And as you always do whenever you see her, you take her hand, and take her home. 

 

 

She appears like clockwork, an alarm in the morning you’ve gotten so used to; you no longer groan nor slap the snooze button. Sometimes it's midnight and sweltering, and others, the morning air begins to nip your nose. You see her beside your car before you go to work, or outside the window of your office door. Sometimes, she is standing on the other side of the street, waiting for you to cross. She always finds you before you find her, and every time you notice, you take her home. You stopped asking why years ago. 

           You always take her hand first. Her hands are always ice cold, and you always hold them within yours. It never seems to warm her, but warmth never suits her when frost grows on your kitchen window. You would never tell her, but you’re glad she’s here. She fills the empty space in your apartment with sun rays that never quite reach the corners, but she greets you in the morning and lays with you at night. Colors dull around her, but it’s easier to see her delicate figure in the corners of your eyes. Time with her runs slower, the sun pausing in the sky when she holds your arm as you stroll the block. Your body itself slows, heartbeat and breath lethargic. You can barely move in the mornings when you wake, but it gives you five more minutes in bed as you embrace her.

           You notice it’s hard to breathe when you hold her sometimes, and a little while after. You wonder if you should tell someone, but your complexion is brighter today, and you even smile at an amusing joke. Your coworker even comments on your upbeat demeanor that morning, and you dodge saying anything more than “thank you.” You remember that clinic appointment you had scheduled for yesterday. You missed it, and you only mind that you will have to call to reschedule. Tomorrow, you think, I’ll hold her a little less. Just enough to make a phone call. 

 

 

Your vision is blurring more, too. It always happens when you look at her. You should only admire her from your periphery, but sometimes you give in and look her in the eyes. You know you shouldn’t, and you shudder at the memory of the times you did it before, but you know when to look away now. She always blurs the lines and dulls the colors, and you vaguely wonder if you should see an optometrist. You balk at the idea. You’ve never spoken of her beyond vague niceties, and opposite the part of you that wants to ask if others know her, too.  You find yourself wanting to keep her a secret, if only to have the comfort of her presence a little while longer. You don’t even have to try, you think. Her presence is that of phantoms, white foxes in the snow, stray gravel from asphalt under car wheels that hums but you barely register. You don’t know how you’ll explain why she’s in your home and at your table and in your bed despite your vision graying with every passing day, so you decide not to go to the optometrist. You can still navigate through your apartment when she’s around, anyway. 

            She clings to you at night the most. You wrap yourself around her, the only time you can, and her skin is ice, her hair snow. You always try to warm her, but she is never warm in your arms. Still, you hold onto her, stroking your fingers through her hair, your fingers going numb with the chill, but you ignore it. You wouldn’t admit it, but you don’t care much for your fingers beyond running them through the snowflakes of her strands. It gets easier every time you do and easier to stop, too. Your reason says it’s good that you can stop; you need your fingers, but tonight you wonder if that’s really your reason or the whispers of her voice. After years and years of knowing her, they almost sound identical. You wonder if that’s normal. You scoff. You usually never worry about what is or isn’t normal when you hold her close. You’re too busy running your fingers through her hair.

           You’re losing your appetite. You awoke that morning and saw her shadow at the edge of your bed, and you bit back a scream. You think back to when you met her first and how her presence unnerved you, left your knees weak and breath shallow. She would stalk behind you at school just out of your sight. She would loom in every corner where the sun couldn’t reach, every stray gust of wind that threw your papers away, every misstep, and every held breath. She would stand at the foot of your bed every night, and as the morning sun rose through the bedroom window, her shadow would block the rays from your face and you would scream. It took you so long to lead her into your home and longer to reach out and try to warm her hand, but sometimes, sometimes you remember those days when you look into her eyes, when you cling to her longer than you know you should. Your mother is calling and she notices the lowering tones of your voice, and you wonder if sound itself is becoming as lifeless as the houseplants on your counter. You say you’re fine like you always do, but you feel icicle arms snake around you as you say it, and the final breath your mother hears is heavier than the rest. You hang up before she can say anything about it. You skip breakfast; you’re late for work. 

 

 

You wonder if you should kiss her, just once. You’ve imagined it many times, too many times to count. After all, you love her, if you could call it love. You always let her in, lead her into your bed. Why, just once, couldn’t you tell her? You pry her fingers, one by one, from your arm and roll away from her under the covers. You hold yourself tonight. 

 

 

Her back is to you, and you admire her figure from across the living room. She shines best on dull days, when it is only you and she and she isn’t looking at you. You see her in thin lines and technicolor this morning, and if you were an absolute buffoon, you would write a love poem to her. You don’t. You know better than to tell her it’s love. You nibble on a muffin, and you notice a slight sheen on her face as you leave for work.

            She gets weaker by the day. Your cheeks are rosy as ever, but the red of your blood pumps at a faster rate now. Your chest is feeling lighter, and you take the closest thing to a deep breath you can. She coughs whenever you do. You ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner yesterday, but she refused to sit at the table with you, prone by the toilet bowl as you smile for the first time in what feels like ages, even though you smiled a few hours before. Her hair, the powdered snow you always run your fingers through, starts to feel brittle and dry, hard grass roasted in the summer, so she no longer sleeps in your bed. You hold onto nothing, and for once you get up in the morning and get semi annoyed at your alarm. The sun’s rays come in unobstructed. She stays in the living room every night. 

You have an appointment at the clinic today, and you decide to take her with you. You don’t know how you’ll explain this to the doctor, but you figure you might as well try. She waits for you by the door like she always waits for you, but her cheeks are sallow. Your reason asks if you should really take her with you, but you know it’s just the whisper of her voice this time and you almost dare to say 

it’s okay. You open the door and hold it for her. 

           She steps out and the first thing you register is the warmth of the sun, stronger than your hands that have known nothing but the coldness of hers, brighter than your eyes can stand to look at, unlike the dulling clouds that inundated your vision when she held fast to you. You bask in it, you breathe, and you forget her completely as you close your eyes in the closest thing you can muster to joy. 

           By the time you open your eyes, she’s gone. A pool of water sits at your feet. Your reflection is wavering as the water flows away, and you follow that thin stream down to a single flower blooming from a crack in the concrete. It’s all that remains of her, and you thank her, just once. She has never cared for flowers, but she always shows them to you when she leaves. She wiggles into crevices at your feet, into the earth below, hidden in your shadow from the heat of the sun. You call her name once, and you tell her maybe it was never love. You tell her you’ll find her first next time. You tell your doctor this when you see them later.