Toast and Newspapers

They’re tracing their fingers down my back. I feel their soft hands, pressing with love, and hear the whispered counting of my vertebrae. Warm lips press against the nape of my neck. A sigh, and a shuffle, the sounds shift to the scratches of a pencil, tracing thought. The book is wriggled back under their side of the mattress, and the click of the light brings quiet darkness. Their breathing is even, they tap their fingers on their belly.

Breakfast crunches in my mouth, my feet against their chair. Their feet against mine. I watch their eyes flicking across the page of the paper, under strands of mousy brown hair. ‘This is my favourite place’, I muse with a gentle nudge of my foot into their side. The reply, a grin which I savour, sparkling eyes, crinkled from years of laughter.

Linked arms and raining nights. Our voices lift up past the buildings and into the sky. ‘I don’t even care if it’s cheesy,’ they chuckle, wiping water from my face, ‘It’s magical here under the stars’. I laugh at their optimism, the rain clouds and city lights have bullied the stars from sight. Mascara runs, shoes echo.

A vibration in my pocket, only two hours since the kiss goodbye in the kitchen. ‘Flight is delayed because of the storm, thinking of you’. A memory of a smile over their shoulder, as their bag swung to their back.

It’s the breaking news bulletin at the bar which announces the irreversible words. The television set becomes very small, the sound of my heart thuds out of time. I am on the floor without knowing how. It is sticky and smells of beer. Someone is wearing bright red shoes, they’re rushing towards me.

Bleak eyes stare around the room. Someone drops a mug, it bounces twice and breaks on the blue tiles. Blue tiles that are too bright for today. Their mother hisses in my face, ‘Why would they make you the beneficiary?’ I step forward, I know in my stomach the pain their mother is feeling. I reach out my hand, but I can’t find the comfort to share. I don’t want the confrontation or the money.

Four days since the funeral. The paper is still on the table, revealing the unfinished crossword, their handwriting feels like it’s burning my throat. Taunting. An angry shove, the newspaper gives in and flits to the floor. Black ink on my fingers.

It feels like a betrayal, as I approach the bed. I sink to the floor, and press my hand to the spot. I know it’s under there. My fingers feel the binding of the notebook, and inch it out from its hiding. I trace the swirls on the black cover, ‘For Alex and Ame’. My eyes take in the first page. A silhouette of my face. Expecting words. Finding drawings. Our kitchen table, legs intertwined. Our first kiss, the graffitied billboard carefully traced behind. Outlines of their favourite flowers, my favourite coffee mug. The sketches bring a sob from my chest. Our faces. Our hands.

I wake with the crushing pain on my chest again. It’s a grey concrete block, which refuses to budge. The bed is cold. Only the sound of my own laboured breathing. The cheque, not yet deposited, glares at me from the dresser.

Time is passing. I think. It must be. The ugly bricks stand out against the towering glass buildings. Sam is holding the door open. I’m late for the meeting. My laces are untied and I am clumsy through the doorway. Sam started coming the same time as me. They always have a new joke about the stale biscuits.

I take the last box of donations from the car. Children’s faces press against the windows in anticipation. A friendly, albeit tired, social worker is sifting through the new supplies. Sam closes the door and rests their hand on my back. Their fingers press a different way against my shirt. ‘They would have loved how you’ve spent their money.’ A text from their mother, only ‘Thank you’.

Back at the apartment I am writing in the margins, I am describing the scenes in their drawings, I fold clippings from the paper, run my fingers along lines, adding to our story. Sam is snoring softly on their side, new breath a gentle addition to the room which was quiet for too long. The little black notebook finds its new home under the mattress beneath me.