I remember her in quiet moments. 

I’m standing on my balcony watching the sunrise; the light will hit the skyscrapers on the horizon just right, and I will recall how her skin drank the sun’s beams like nectar, keeping her skin a warm honey brown all year round. I’m sitting in my office; I glance up at the blood red vase on the corner of my desk, and I picture her smile, her lips painted a sparkling garnet even on days she didn’t plan to leave the house. I’m lying in bed; I imagine that she is beside me, her hands soft like the petals of a lily flower, fiddling with the hem of my shirt as she whispers of a lonely old man she saw in the park, or an ornery group of teens holding up the line in the shop she always frequented. 

I busy myself; this limits the moments she occupies my mind to only those few, quiet instances. I stay late most nights in the office, scribbling away at paperwork that won’t be due for at least a week or so. I spend my weekends tinkering with various elements of my apartment that don’t really demand immediate attention. Just yesterday, I used up four hours fixing the sink, when the most I’d seen it leak was a droplet, one month ago. 

It’s Monday. My day off. 

The first day in what feels like decades that I don’t have anything planned. There’s nothing in the apartment that I could bull**** about needing even a little polishing—months of constant checkups and cleanings have left it all in tip top shape, something I lament even as I enjoy the new pillows I bought for the couch about a week ago. I’m sitting in the living room and watching the television’s black screen. I don’t want to put anything on but I can’t stand the quiet, so I reach for the remote and just flick to the channel that plays news on a constant loop. There’s been a robbery a few blocks down, near the ramen shop I like to take my niece to when she and my sister come to visit. Someone was shot, but no one died, so I tune out and focus on the pictures. I feel like Charlie Brown being scolded by his parents as I listen to the monotonous voice of the reporter; mumbling and squeaking in a rhythm similar to speaking but not quite forming coherent words. 

I think about the weather. It should be nice today. The cherry blossoms are in bloom and there’s a tree on my street that leans toward the sidewalk; when the wind blows, petals fly off and float in the breeze like they would in a movie. When that gets boring I think about work. That interests me for about 30 seconds and then I’m back at square one, watching some woman talk about how her favorite deli is going out of business. The headline in big, bold letters beneath her is LOCALS CONDEMN GENTRIFICATION. Not once have I heard the woman talking actually condemn gentrification, but who knows, I’m not really listening. 

I decide that maybe the quiet is better than nonsense, but I don’t turn off the television. Instead, I stand and stretch my arms above my head. It’s about noon. I slept in all morning and I’m still wearing my pajamas, though the checkered pants are so old they belong in a museum, and the fabric has grown itchy over the years. 

Warmth reaches me from the open balcony doors and I gravitate toward it. It’s a bit humid out. The sky is shrouded in that thin layer of clouds; it’s not grey enough to threaten rain, but still they sheath the sun, making its light white. Burns my eyes. 

Despite that, I like standing on the balcony. The view is nice, everyone who’s seen it agrees. I used to enjoy leaning against the railing and sipping on a bottle of beer, preferably Blue Moon’s Mango Wheat. I don’t care what anyone says, alcohol is gross and the only tolerable sect of it is that which has fruit flavoring; any type of extra flavoring is fine, really. I would watch the sun fall behind the tall buildings on the horizon until the city was shrouded in dark blue—not as black of a night as I grew up in, but there’s no stopping light pollution. 

Maybe it’s a product of the news, but I can really see how gentrified my neighborhood has become since I moved here. My building’s obviously ancient exterior used to blend in perfectly with the architecture around it, but looking now it feels slightly out of place. Across the street, the cheap clothing store has been replaced by a supermarket with a sleek grey awning and a name printed in 3d on the front. Craning my neck just a bit, I see the little Japanese market has been transformed into another Chipotle—I wonder if maybe that’s why I’ve been seeing more teenagers around here recently. 

The view has been soured. Suddenly, the taste of Blue Moon fills my mouth and my face contorts in disgust, as I slide the balcony doors shut. 

I’m running out of things to distract myself with. The lady reporter’s voice is starting to annoy me and finally I pick up the remote and click the power button, bringing the television back to black. 

My stomach rumbles and I realize that I’m hungry. There isn’t much food in the house, as I promised myself I’d go grocery shopping about two days ago and never did. Maybe now that I’ve noticed the market across the street I’ll go more often. 

When I open up the fridge, I’m greeted by about four things with at least some nutritional value. Some deli sliced turkey, a half-finished carton of almond milk, a box of blueberries, and a nacho cheese dip and salsa Lunchable. The rest is garbage that’s probably past its expiration date, and sure smells like it. 

The Lunchable is the obvious choice, so I reach for it and shut the door a bit too hard; there’s no need to be wary of that, since I’ve tightened it so much it would tremble only in the presence of the Hulk. When I peel back the plastic on what seems to be my lunch this fine afternoon, I’m hit with the unmistakable stench—sweaty teenagers sitting at cafeteria tables, peeking jealously at the kid whose mom packed him the beloved Lunchable snack. 

It’s my day off, and I’m eating a Lunchable while I stare at a blank screen. 

Despite my honorable efforts to distract myself, it’s all fruitless. I can hear her melodic voice already, echoing in the recesses of mind like I’m standing in a boundless cave and she’s calling to me from the other end of it. The nacho cheese tastes very processed but I eat it anyway and hope my stomach will agree with the choice, just this once. It’s quiet. I don’t hear the cars roaring below, or the birds chirping in the cherry blossom tree. I hear nothing but the noises of my own head, and god, they’re loud. 

“Greenland. What a load of bull****.” 

She tilted her head to the side like a confused puppy, her hair falling in front of her eyes as a taunting sort of smile spread across her face. “You’re such an angry person. You think everything is bull****.” 

I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest as I brought the beer bottle to my lips. It tasted how I’d imagine someone’s dehydrated piss would, but the salt rimmed on the mouth of it took away some of the pain. Still, I couldn’t help the way my face scrunched as it slid down my throat; like a kid sucking on a lemon even though they know it’ll make their lips pucker. 

“I don’t think everything is bull****. I think bull**** is bull****, and it just so happens that most things are. There’s nothing green about the place. It’s basically all ice,” I explained, taking another swig once I heard her giggle softly. Her laughter sounded like wind chimes in a summer breeze; specifically, when you wake up and you hear the faint noise in your neighbor’s garden. Far away, but at the same time close enough that you could look out your back window and see the metal flutes swaying, clinking against one another to create a melody entrancing enough to lull even the laziest out of bed. 

“It’s not all ice. Only 79%, actually,” she corrected, as if it was something I should know already. I turned to face her to see that she was looking at me, her beer bottle already empty on the circular side-table that sat between us. Her smile was still just as teasing, close to mocking, but not quite. 

“What?” she asked, in the way a pretty girl does when she knows why you’re staring, but wants to hear you say it. She watched me carefully with those indigo marbles of hers and waited for me to do just that, but she knew I wasn’t going to. Sometimes I wondered if that was part of my appeal. I didn’t give her the gratification of using words to acknowledge how unequivocally beautiful she was, because that’s what it was; unequivocal. She knew what she did to people, and she had a habit of losing interest when people told her what she already knew. 

“I’ll get you another beer.” I tore my eyes away from hers, moving to stand; she held her hand out, and her silver rings glittered in the moonlight. 

“No, that’s alright. They taste like sh*t, anyway.” 

I almost asked her why she drank them if she didn’t enjoy it, but knew before I could open my mouth that there was no real answer. It would be like asking a baby why they cry. 

The nacho cheese is gone and the crackers are only half way through. I don’t like the salsa; it’s too sweet for me. I guess it makes sense, considering it’s for kids, but as a fully grown man I have to draw the line somewhere. 

I can really taste the Blue Moon on my tongue right now, and no matter how many chips I shove in my mouth it won’t go away. It feels like I have morning breath after forgetting to brush my teeth the previous night. I feel gross but I don’t move from my spot on the couch. I curse myself for not thinking ahead; if I hadn’t been so eager to get things done, I could be doing work right now instead of thinking of her face, and the beauty mark beside her right eye. How her bottom lip was a little bigger than her top, and her nose almost oddly straight—the only reason I doubted she’d gotten surgery for it was because there was a little bump on the bridge, visible if you were watching her from the side. 

At her funeral, I remember her brother making a speech about how he was afraid to forget her face. I don’t know how old he is; can’t be more than fifteen. He looks just like her, except for the hair. Hers was board straight, and this deep auburn shade. His is almost a dirty blonde, with slight waves. Not enough for me to be suspicious about whether or not they really have the same father, but enough for me to think one of them isn’t sporting their natural hair. Whatever the case, their faces are almost identical—when he was standing by the podium beside his mother, I thought I was hallucinating that she was up there, instead of in the coffin at her brother’s feet. It’s clear they both got their looks from the maternal side of the family. 

I remember thinking, how could someone possibly forget her face? Then I remembered I was the only one who had time to not only memorize what she looked like alive, but what she looked like the moment she died, and that may have something to do with it. That’s the thing I hate thinking of more than anything else, but once it’s on my mind I can’t get rid of it. 

I wonder how her family is doing now. I haven’t spoken to them since the funeral; I didn’t go to the wake, which was held after the burial. I had never heard of someone doing that, but when I asked her mother, she said it was because she would rather celebrate her daughter’s life after she had been put to final rest. I thought that was bull****, but then her voice popped into my head and told me not to say that, so I didn’t. I smiled and promised I would go. Instead, I left the night after the funeral, stopping by the house to leave what I knew to be her mother’s favorite flowers at the doorstep. No one saw me go, no one except the brother, who watched me from his bedroom window on the second floor with a solemn expression that I placed between disappointment and anger. 

I applaud that family; if it were me in their place, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to attend the funeral. None of them had ever seen my face; they only knew my name, because apparently she used to call the house a lot and talk about me. When her mother saw me for the first time, sitting in the hospital waiting room with blood splattered all over and my entire body trembling feverishly, she somehow guessed I was the man her daughter kept gushing about, because she rushed at me and embraced me in her soft arms. Mother’s instinct, maybe. I had never been held like that, and sat very still for the entirety of it—at least that was an upgrade from the intense shivers. 

Only the mother had been able to make it. The brother was on an overnight school trip and she hadn’t had time to pick him up; she received the call from the paramedics and took off immediately. She only lived about a half hour or so away from the city, so it didn’t take her long to reach the hospital. 

She didn’t know how badly her daughter was hurt. I was in the ambulance when they called her; they didn’t say much of anything, just that she needed to get here as fast as she possibly could. I think the mother asked if they could put her daughter on the phone, but the paramedics dismissed her by saying it “just wasn’t possible right now”, and hung up the phone. The only reason they’d been able to get in touch with the mother was because I knew the password to her phone; she was in no state to be listing off phone numbers. 

“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve saved her life,” her mother had said to me, when she finally released me from her iron grip and placed her hands on either side of my face. I thought my expression would give away that no, I hadn't saved her life, in fact I had ended it, but she only smiled through the tears streaming down her round cheeks and again pulled me into her arms. This time, I was able to place my own lightly around her, but I couldn’t close my eyes. They were pried open by invisible hands and though the air stung them, that slight pain was better than what I knew awaited me if I allowed myself the darkness. 

I think she was trying to make me feel better; I must’ve looked like my ribs had been shattered and my windpipe crushed when she walked in and saw me. But all her unabated love and sympathy did was make me feel more like a monster, like the cruel and selfish man that I was. When she pulled away for the final time and took a seat next to me, her hand squeezing mine, I began to shake again. 

Sometimes, I regret leaving her alone. The mother had no one to love except her son, and from what I’d seen, their relationship was already strained and could not have benefitted from the tragedy. I can say with confidence that I loved her like a mother, and I think she loved me like a son, but for me to allow her to care for me like she would care for her own kin made me feel disgusting. How could I let her cry in my arms? How could I cry in hers, letting her think I sobbed only because she was gone, and not because I was the reason? 

It’s a shame. Had things gone the way I wanted them to, she would’ve made a wonderful mother-in-law. 

The clothes I wear feel heavy, and I feel as if maggots crawl beneath my skin, wiggling between blood vessels and trying to burrow their way toward my heart. I need to shower. 

I toss the Lunchable container onto the coffee table that is covered in wrappers and unopened letters, standing quickly as I make my way to the bathroom. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. The last time I was so eager to scrub myself clean was months ago; I had just come home from the hospital. The blood caked on my fingers felt like it was sinking into my skin, a tattoo of death, and I rubbed my hands so raw they were red afterwards, and I cried thinking I had been too late, the blood was already there forever, a permanent reminder of the sins I had failed to escape. 

My breathing has grown erratic and labored by the time I reach the bathroom door. It’s open because I always leave it open; there’s no one in the apartment that could walk in on me taking a sh*t or otherwise, so what’s the harm in it. I tear off my clothes which takes more effort than you would think because they have each grown to be ten pound weights, and I put the water on so hot I swear my skin is bubbling when I step in and I pour soap into my washcloth and scrub, scrub really hard until I don’t feel the maggots anymore, until I feel like a newborn baby exposed to the sun the moment it is torn from its mother’s womb. Only then am I satisfied. Only then do I turn off the water and catch a glimpse of my reflection, warped by the tile wall. 

My hair hangs like slivers of shadow in front of my face and my eyes stare back at me, two black holes. I try not to look at the pink scar that follows the curve of my jaw, but it’s almost impossible not to notice, even in the warbled reflection. I know I can’t scrub that away, no matter how I press the cloth. Every time I try, it just makes it worse. 

I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel that hangs on the rack to my right; I don’t know if it’s fresh or not, but it smells fine. I wince a bit at the friction created by the fabric on my abraded skin. I raise my hand to the fogged up mirror and wipe away the condensation to really study myself. I look like a raw chicken. 

The sky is still grey when I exit the bathroom and stare out my bedroom window, but it’s darkened a little and I think it’s going to rain after all. Maybe I’ll go to the new market and get myself some groceries. I have a feeling my stomach will heed my plea for compromise and allow me to ingest the nacho cheese without any backlash. Maybe I’ll make myself some dinner. 

I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow.