The musty smell was a constant in the bedroom. He had tried various cleaning solutions to no
avail. There was something in the wooden
floors and walls of the old house that just smelled like age and decay. On warm days he would open the stubborn
window and place a fan in the opening which only swirled the scent of the room
as opposed to bringing in a new odor.
When the fan was on he would turn up the music to try and override the
fan, so as a result most of the residents of the house had become quite familiar
with the band Superchunk that Spring.
He had immersed himself in American writers of the early 20th
century after his latest girlfriend had left him. He complained to his friends about the sheer
amount of reading he needed to accomplish, but honestly he was thankful for the
opportunity to lose himself within the pages.
He spent lazy afternoons reading Fitzgerald. When he closed the book he was always slightly
surprised to find himself in the modest room instead of a sprawling house in
the Hamptons in 1926. He always read on
the left side, which had been ‘his side” of the bed. In the afternoon when the sun shone directly
into the room it became warm and would make him sleepy. He would place the book carefully on the
nightstand and roll over to the right side of the bed. The pillow still smelled like her. He closed his eyes and breathed her in. Sometimes she would enter into his dreams,
confusing scenarios of 1920s parties where he could never find the door to
exit.
He checked his messages constantly hoping she would initiate
contact again. He had called her once
since she had left, immediately regretting it.
She had not answered the phone but he knew she would see his missed call
and look at it like weakness. In his
mind she had somehow merged with the characters in his books, spending her
nights being clever at fabulous parties while he sat in his self-imposed exile.
He was sure she was awash in suitors,
each one more handsome and accomplished than he. Superchunk gave way to Pavement. The fan whirled. He thought about how her long hair would move
while she slept next to him.
It was a shock when he ran into her. He was in the shabby grocery store near the
city center. As he always refused to get
a cart or basket, he was perilously balancing cans of tuna, a loaf of bread,
soup and a six pack of Bass Ale. He was
performing a cheap circus stunt with no audience. He almost collided with her when he turned
from the cooler, the beer precariously balanced on the tip of his index finger.
“Hi…”
He felt embarrassed. He wasn’t
sure why. She stared at him with a look
of light annoyance. She had cut her hair
from the long wild mane into a proper bob cut.
She looked great. He instantly knew
she didn’t love him anymore. He
stammered out some small talk. She was composed. He felt his face grow hot. He felt like a fool. He went home and washed the sheets and
pillowcases.
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