Purple Night

"Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky."

"It's an omen," I recited, crouched by Mark's grave. He could hear me better when I crouched over, whispering with my hands cupped by my mouth like a child telling a secret. I didn't want my voice to be carried away by the wind.

"The silence of it alarmed me at first," I continued, "Up on the roof with some box wine and a blanket to watch the clouds spin."

"I was so mesmerized that it took me a minute to notice. It was like someone had plugged my ears with cotton and stuffed me somewhere far away."

I touched the gravestone lightly. It was warm. The night wind remained cold on my neck.

"The clouds are the color of lilacs. My favorite, as you know. You'd surprise me every spring. I'd water them until they'd rot."

"Anyways, the silence didn't last, Mark. Eventually, I could hear my heartbeat again. Then I'd fall asleep to the sound of my own blood circulating."

"That's been the routine ever since you went away. This omen of hope. It's like a drug. Every night, I watch the purple sky until you carry me to bed."

"So, thanks loser. Happy Birthday," I tapped the stone again. The marble was breathing shallow breaths, as if I wouldn't notice.

Smiling, I unwrapped a cheap store-bought cupcake and pressed it into the shapeshifting stone. A trail of smeared frosting was left behind as gravity took its toll. My offering to the not-so-dead.

/

The day Mark disappeared, the world shifted. I was in a tattoo parlor bathroom when it happened. That is, when I knew something was wrong.

You see, for the first 30 years of my life, the world spun one way. The right way. And I lived unthinkingly, as most do. I had faith that the ground would catch me between every step.

Then, abruptly, the world shifted direction, and my body never acclimated. I never found my footing again.

What a shock it was when I was spit out of that bathroom stumbling, the world tilted sideways, unsteady, my eyes blurry like a bad trip, to discover that everyone else was still right side up.

That's when I knew the diagnosis of my sudden disorientation had something to do with Mark.

We're an isolated pair, us two. Forever bonded.

We met when we were both 22 at a late night movie showing. I only came out during the evening, and so did he. We were never wont to face the day and all the people who traversed it with sweat and a furrowed brow.

Like nocturnal animals, we both emerged from our prospective habitats, wary of predators. Out of pure luck, we found a mate for life. Another soul to share the night.

We planned to live quietly. To tiptoe around each other in love and embrace in occasional solidarity.

And we did just that. Until the 29th of March. When our little solar system imploded.

Mark vanished. Pulled into another world. A world of silence I only catch a glimpse of in the vortex of purple clouds.

When the clock strikes midnight, maybe there's a chance to reset it all. To get him back. That's been my stubborn assumption.

For 367 nights, I've met the gaze of the sky in silent motion, only to have him carry me to bed, an incorporeal form.

Around day 200, I started leaving wineglasses tottering on every sharp corner around the house. Thinking Hoping he'd knock them over and snap reality back into place in one rapturous crash. Instead, I'd wake to find them pushed back to safety, far from every ledge.

Perhaps he didn't want me to join him. Perhaps we were better off like this. I was just as much a ghost as he. I always was. He just made me forget about it for a while.

/

With 11 more cupcakes in tow, I made my way back to our one bedroom house. Four walls and a roof. It's a short walk. His "grave" is in the backyard.

I'd buried his toothbrush (the only thing left that had remnants of his DNA) in a shallow hole and bought a big slab of marble to mark it. It bore no epitaph.

The wind would topple it over eventually after a few centuries. But, even then, I'd come back from whatever lifetime and mend the snapped stone with Epoxy. I'd throw shitty cupcakes at the marble and kiss it off.

Now in the kitchen, I open the remaining vanilla cupcakes for dessert. Mid-bite, I sit down at our tiny kitchen table and look up. My eyes lock onto the shadow on the wall. Mark's shadow. Clear as the purple night sky. Down to the unruly straggles of hair on top of his head.

I watch the shadow's shoulders rise and fall as it draws steady breaths. I keep my glare persistent, doubtful, searching.

The shadow of Mark remained, as if to reaffirm its presence. To invoke an eyeless stare.

I arose not, but felt my puzzled state transmute into nausea and desperation. The world was still spinning the wrong way, and only I could feel it. I need to set it right.

Without opening my mouth, I heard my voice encased inside me: "How did I get here?"

By here, I meant everywhere. This house, this day, this moment, this life. I look at the clock above the stove and it's stopped moving. Stuck forever at 9:04.

It's only then that it hits me. Time has finally stopped so I could look up and see the wall breathe. So I could move on through.

I get up slowly. My ears are plugged again. The silence, an assurance.

I reach my hand out blithely (expecting nothing), and my hand goes through Mark's shadow. He envelops me in ease, as it was always meant to be.

When I can hear again, I open my eyes, and the first thing I see are lilacs and his grey hair. Mark and I are aged at our kitchen table. He hasn't forgotten.