She loved a boy once, but that was a long time ago. She loved his blueberry pancakes and the way he forgot to dot his "I's". That he'd bring her an apple and leave it on her desk in the studio. No note, just an apple, but she knew it was him.
His hair was gray and he had a stubborn cowlick he’d given up on. The freckles on his forehead had turned to age spots and between the wrinkles around his eyes were untold stories. On his left hand, held tightly in place by his swollen arthritic knuckles was a gold ring which hadn’t come off since the day it had been placed there by the woman he loved. When he was bored or bothered, he’d rotate the ring with his thumb, the dry skin on his finger slowly flaking off with each twist. He was used to the tapping sound his ring made when he grasped the counter at a café to scoot his chair in and the way it felt soggy with shampoo in the mornings when he washed his hair. He liked the clanging noise when left hand reached for left hand.
He was born in the Year of the Dog, which meant he was fiercely loyal and a bit eccentric. His closet wasn’t full of anything fancy, just necessities, but it was obsessively neat. The items in it only budged when he took them out to wear. Tweed jackets hugged one another front to back like in a retail store. His impressive collection of bow ties hung in patterns: paisleys and small prints, plaids and regimental stripes slowly giving way to solids. He preferred Oxfords to loafers or wingtips. He liked his laces tied tight and replaced them seasonally. He polished his shoes as soon as he slipped them off so they’d be ready for the next wear. He owned one pair of athletic shoes and one pair of loafers with tassels. He only bought them to please her.
When he went out there was a bulge in his jacket pocket where his wallet nested between him and the outside world. He kept a photo of her in his breast pocket near his heart, which was slowly failing.
He missed her most in the mornings when the sun bathed his east-facing apartment, beams of yellow light illuminating the breakfast table. He’d slice a pear in half and reach it across to where she wasn’t. He missed her in the space between the change of seasons when the air smelled different and anticipation swept up onto the doorstep. He missed her when his eyesight started to fail him and he could no longer read the words on the page or separate the colors outside his window. Without her the lines of his life were beginning to blur.
He lived a solitary life now, the only thing crossing the threshold of his apartment since the day she left was a draft that crept in when he opened the door to go out. His house was a wall-to-wall cabinet of curiosities. A mini-Louvre. A pile museum, and he was the curator. He tacked up art cards from the Musee D’Orsay, clippings from the newspaper, leaves from trees that lined the streets of Paris. Next to a pebble he’d removed from one of his Oxfords was an acorn he found one day while scuffing his feet along the park outside the Orangerie. He clipped coupons, kept phone bills and tucked receipts from restaurants into a drawer. Anything to prove he was trying to move on.
He couldn’t remember what parts of her he fell in love with first. Her dark hair. The way she looked dancing to Charles Trenet. How she signed love letters Yours. Her cherry red lips. He could watch those lips form words all day. They were red like the poppies that dotted the French countryside where he spent the summer as a boy. He’d bet a game of Boules her lips were the same color as those poppies. He’d give anything to see her knee deep in those poppies, lips cherry red, hands motioning for him to come join her.
I'm not very good about taking pictures for work. I'm trying to be better.
One of the things I love about this house is the view from the front entry. Every time I walk in, I am so pleased by the symmetry in both directions.
