Some more things— that I said

short fiction

I’m not hiding. I’m living in here. This is a thing that I say.

It’s about being in the dark. Closing the curtains. Turning the lights off. A blanket over my head.

When I turned 37, I counted back 12 years that I’d been alone in this apartment. It’s good. I’m alright.

I wait until the sky goes black; I run the water in the tub. I don’t light candles. I soak until my eyes adjust. This way, I don’t see the grime growing a ring around the tub, the rust on the faucet, the paint peeling on the bathroom door. These things don’t live in here. I live in here. It’s good.

After the bath, I catch my figure in the mirror and it is a winding road with a slight turn at my hips. I like myself like this, a shadow, an outline. I let my eyes wander up the peak of my breasts and I place a hand on my neck. I can’t see the folds in my stomach, the soft parts of my thighs. I can’t see my eyes so drowned. Because in here everything is black.

When my grandfather’s mind went wayward, he saw the dead. He would tell me. “My brother came today, his wife, her sister; I wish you could have been in here to see.”

“This is wonderful.” And, “I’m sorry I missed this.” These are some things that I said.

He took my hand, looked at me, and somewhere in there, in his own eyes so drowned, I read that he still knew me.

He would tell me. “Honey, I wish you could have been in here.”

In his mind. That’s what he meant. In there as he’d float in the dark, life reels fading, the ocean now too blue to understand.

“Don’t worry.” And, “I’ll go in there with you.” These are some more things—

that I said.