Kathy

They always bug me about seeing her—meeting her, actually. Ken and Brian. Even Chad sometimes, who accuses me of making her up. But she’s not made up, a figment of my imagination. She’s real. I assure you, she is very real.

When I get home, I kneel beside the bed and I tell her about everything in my life that has happened since the last time I talked to her. She listens and I take her to heart.

Then we live another day.

This day, this particular August 11, was rough. I tried to tell the guys at Haligan’s but they only wanted to talk about Deshaun Watson’s latest predilections. I kept the details of my day to myself. For a while.

When I got home, relieved, I told Kathy, “I really don’t think I want to do this anymore. I’m listening to all sides, I’m making my objections and my closing argument but sometimes, babe, even when I win for my client, I feel like I lose.”

She’s a good listener.

I only drink at the bar.  Out of respect for Kathy, I never drink at home. Kathy doesn’t drink.

Also, when I go out, I have a strict rule that Kathy always told me I should follow: never do shots. Drink as much as you want, she says, you can always Uber home, but don’t do shots. I broke the rule once, on her last birthday. She winked at me when she lifted her glass. She was thirty-nine and cancer-free.

But this night, even though I knew better, honestly, I gave in. It was Chad’s fault. Oh hell. It was my fault.

So I came home, an equal combination of alcohol and guilt.

Again, I got down on my knees beside our bed, not sure if she was listening or if she could hear me.

“Kathy,” I started, tears welling in my eyes, the lights off, my shirt removed, my hands prayerful near her pillow, “I have a confession to make.”

I felt a movement in the air.

“I ruined the exception,” I continued. “Chad offered me a shot as I was leaving. He—I. I don’t know. I took it. I just. I miss you. You know? I fucking miss you. How we were.  The cancer thing. It just. It drove us apart. I didn’t. I love you. I didn’t mean for it to drive us apart.” I stopped for her, sensed her presence in the darkness. “It just happened.”

We slept.

The next day I felt like Bill Murray. I lived precisely the exact same day. Even down to breaking the rule. Because Chad.

When I got home, later than usual, I knew Kathy would be dead to the world. But even in the darkness, kneeling beside our bed, my hands folded together, I knew she would understand.

“Kathy,” I asked, “do you remember our first date? We went to that damn Asian fusion place off McCardle.”

I listened for her.

Then I laughed. “That’s right, that’s right,” I said, remembering with her. “You hated the sake. Didn’t finish it.” If I had been standing, I would have been swaying. Instead, I was kneeling beside our bed, like I always do, still smelling the scent of her shampooed hair on her pillow.

“You wanted the Merlot,” I continued. “I got that for you. Then we made out next to your car.” I stopped talking. I remembered her bringing the glass of red wine to her lips. I remember falling in love with her as she swirled the red liquid in the glass, holding it inches from her face, then tilting it back into her mouth, swallowing the alcohol, maintaining eye contact with me,  her red lipstick matching the remnants of the wine upon her slightly parted lips as she set the glass back down on the bar between us.  Then this: the first time she smiled at me.  Damn, I thought, my life cannot continue without Kathy.

“Kathy,” I said, finally breaking down after months of holding it in.

“Kathy,” I said, “it wasn’t your lips.” I waited for a reaction. “It wasn’t your hips,” I continued. “It was the Merlot on your breath when we kissed.” I cried and cried and cried, curled up in a ball next to our bed.

Finally, I had to pee.

Then I came back to our empty bed, the covers pulled back just as I had left them that morning.

“Kathy,” I said to the dead air, sprawled out alone on our bed, knowing she could somehow see me, hear me, “rest your soul.”