They wake together illumined by bright Friday light. Both will be home for the day but he lingers in bed as she goes on ahead. From the shared office she calls in good urgency, stirring him to get up, decide to join. With radiating coffee he steams in and sees her in excitement at her screen. She says the latest is out, the newest new, let’s read it together, me and you. She invites in good spirits, so he scoots closer then rests his chin in free hand as her hand scrolls and time goes up, up in a flash—this way two hours pass. Reading together is a nice and soft surprise. The Friday, then, is divvied up as both lounge, eat, and clean in this hallowed nest of theirs, so warm, as a dream. From scrubbed floor the morn refracts, diffusing in the air, every corner of the house. It is fragrant now and perhaps what Mother says in times of need really is true—it does mend and right, this morning light. And its daily accumulation? Oh, prime might. This surge motivates to sing, seize, and strive, go that sweetest extra mile while the day’s gradient fuzzes-moves from white to cream with minor shades pooling at the table’s feet. Somnolence, softness creeps. With each pass, momentary grasp, cloth’s, skin’s rasp, it is proven so, that the beat does go on, even if pulses low. She is calm and he is, as result. Do they nap or with tenderness get up to something more? I do not know. Could be so. Might as well if one were to go by how tomorrow seems to spell e-n-d-l-e-s-s, e-n-d-l-e-s-s, so. And in that tomorrow, oh, in healthy union to unwind, carving out a path divine, for this love is bedrock and unfailing grace; true sublime. Perhaps to further be joined, double helix’d somewhere in the loins? What does she say? And as tall day vesperly cranes its neck, the hopeful man commandeers the kitchen entire with nurture and belated caretaking desire. And that blip—yes, just now—smallest black marble of a thought, wondering why? Did she forgive? Day after day after day. But it is dropped uninspected into sink pipes unseen, so fret not. Something is cooked up as dinnerbridge into a shared late night, in a living room with dimmed light, the TV playing frights into the small hours of tonight. Once all is made seemingly right, he calls for her with true delight. Come, my dear, it’s all here. Again. My dear, did you hear? Again. Oh, it seems he must come near. So he enters that bedroom, turns on the light, and what does he see in a room now bright? Her in the fresh luxurious bed tucked into sheets pristine up to waist, no, higher—chest—both arms upon the duvet rest. And her face? Crumpled with sad fright, as if a child discovered, assailed by blight—him, his silently miserable sight. This she can uphold no longer, though she prayed, truly, and tried. He stands a step past the threshold, they lock eye to eye, and in that moment eons oceans lives flash by. You see, just like that, no word needs even be spoken and something is endlessly, endlessly broken. Okay, he says, I understand, he adds, eyes turning sere, pitch-blackcurrants. And her, poor her, she says nothing anymore, her face a freeze, imprisoned in purest excruciations. So upon the closet he descends, as blackest whirlwind he upends the peace in exorcism of all that lies and ties there. To the floor all belongings marked by him go. In deepest silence he continues to whirl so, no longer together but alone—a lone dead man acting fast to excise himself from her and all joined past. Delete me, forget, expunge. Forgive me, forget, expunge…… Until it is sometime near dawn, him lying folded on carpet, all done. Now is time to wake, dead man, and live on.
Alexei Raymond, shaped by life and love in the Middle East, chases visions of unspeakable loveliness. Find pieces of him in a variety of publications. https://alexeiraymond.com/
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Picture Credits: Raahima S.
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