BY ASHLEY WEAVER
The bald undertaker of a taxi driver blasts a last-ditch attempt to get me out of the intersection. I’m too tired. I’m always too tired. I enter the all-too-familiar apartment building and clamber up the stairs. The elevator is still broken.
“I’m home!” I holler, launching my keys and handbag onto the sofa.
I open the fridge and search for the last piece of chocolate cake I had been harboring until it’s inevitable expiration date. Stories about my comatose board meeting, the bug in my salad at lunch, and the raw jealousy I’m feeling about one of my co-workers spill off of my tongue as I ravage the refrigerator.
And then I enter his room and swallow the rest of my words. “Oh honey, I’m sorry for ranting like that. How was your day?”
No answer. Just the up and down rhythmic hum of the ventilator pumping air into his lungs. I pick up the worn novel sprawled open on his chest. Page 106. The same page he was on when I left.
“You don’t have to be this lazy, you know!” I wag the book at him. But it’s clearly the last thing he wants to hear right now.
I finally calm myself enough to level my voice. “I’m going to make dinner, and when I’m done, we’re going to have a talk.”
I make dinner. We never have a talk. He just lies there and the same feelings of frustration begin to boil inside me.
I wash the dishes for over an hour. Scrub and rinse. The hot water scalds my hands, but I’ll do anything to keep from going back there. From what we both know is coming.
Finally, I meander back into his room. Slowly. I pass the sick cadence of the ventilator and pick up the crinkled book from its place on the chair beside his bed.
“…He hesitated at the sight of her, entranced, for he had never seen a creature so still, so lovely. He leaned over her bedside, breathing in her beauty, and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. Just one. Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, radiant with the breath of new life. True love’s kiss…”
I stop and look up from the page. I never do that.
I reach my hand over to his face and lift one of his eyelids with my finger. Glazed over like a marble, the cornea reflects no life back to me of the man I know.
I lean over and my lips meet his. He doesn’t wake up.