In Pink

Shit. The blouse looked like cotton candy—it was white thirty minutes ago. I moved clothes from the washer to the dryer. Each white piece now the color of bubble gum. You always did the laundry. A sigh escaped my lips, filling the silent house. The house had never been this quiet. I paused and stared at nothing in particular. The cuckoo bird chirped from the kitchen, waking me from my catatonic state. My eyes darted to the wooden clock above the sink. 3pm. Below the clock, returnables and finished Stoli bottles covered the counter surface. What a mess. I tossed the remaining wet clothes in the dryer. They were heavier than they should be. Everything was heavier than it should be.

The legs attached to my body wobbled. I leaned forward, my hands gripping the washer. I peered into the bucket. A red sock—of course. Water welled from below my eyelids. I moved to pick up the reason for my wardrobe’s makeover, and a bright blue piece of plastic caught my eye. A guitar pick. Your guitar pick.

My fingertips didn’t recognize the thin material between them. I flicked the guitar pick against my thigh. I couldn’t feel it. What did the doc prescribe me? Alprazolam? Clonazepam? No, wait. Lorazepam? I didn’t remember. I didn’t hear the doctor. His mouth moved, his lips, his tongue—pink like the clothes—moved, but no sound came out. The pick fell from my grip to the floor. I slouched down the washing machine to the cold tile. We remodeled the laundry room last year. You wanted black and white checkered tiles, I wanted plain ol' beige. I touched the pick, noting the pleasing color palette it created sitting on the tile. Beige tile. You told me you loved me more than black and white flooring.

Why did you leave? I didn’t understand. Fog rolled in against the back of my eyes. I placed my hands on the floor, cooling my burning skin. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my sweats and opened our messages. You weren’t responding to me anymore. You were moving on. But how? I scrolled to texts from a month ago. A month ago we laughed, naked in bed. Entangled. We listened to The National on vinyl. You brought me coffee. I made you breakfast. We kissed in the striped sunlight—only a month ago. My thumb hovered above the call icon. I wanted to hear your voice. I needed to talk to you, to understand. I tapped.

Briiiiiiiing. Briiiiiiiing. My stomach twisted. Briiiiiiiing. Please answer. Briiiiiiiing. Please.

“You’ve reached Brian’s voicemail—you know what to do.”

Beep.

I ended the call, dropping the phone on the hard floor. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I brought my knees to my chest, hugging them. The back of my throat throbbed, unable to swallow. The dryer hummed and tumbled next to me. What comes after life ends? Maybe a dream where we could be together again.

Buzzzzzzz—I squeezed my eyes shut and lifted my spinning head from my knees. My neck strained with the weight. The skin dried on my cheeks. I touched them and felt different rivers streaked across the surface, all leading nowhere. How long had I sat here? The length of the “Normal/Permanent Press” dryer setting. What did permanent press mean anyways?

You always did the laundry.

The room dropped as I stood. Pink swirled with blue and beige. Pretty. I supported myself against the metal appliance, shaking my head to clear the colors. The kaleidoscopic view disappeared. I opened the dryer but stopped at a sound near the front of the house. I pressed my lips together. They tingled.

Birds whistled, orange and brown leaves rustled in the yard outside, but the house remained silent. I exhaled a deep breath of air and reached for the blush-colored garments in the dryer—stop.

Thud, thud, thud. Footsteps, your footsteps. I knew your sounds. How you fingered your keys, the considerate quality of your exploration through the pot and pan cupboard, the way you cleared your throat before singing to me, the sound of your chest rising and falling, how you opened and closed doors—soft, gentle, and your footsteps.

I grabbed my phone lying on the floor. No new messages. No missed calls. The phone shook in my trembling hands. I listened, frozen in front of the dryer. Clothes spilled out the opening.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Louder. You were making your way to the back of the house. To me. I rubbed my palms to my eyes and wiped at my cheeks, erasing the rivers of my hurt. I fumbled with my hair, re-knotting the disastrous messy bun. I coached the lungs in my ribcage. In and out. Nice and easy. I told my heart to slow its heavy pounding. I continued to move one shirt at a time into the laundry basket at my feet.

The hair on the back of my neck raised. Warmth. You stood behind me. Close, but not touching. I felt you. I wished you would slide your hands around my waist and pull me to your chest, burying your face in my hair. Like you used to.

“Hey.”

I turned to face you, clutching a pair of pants to my chest. My knees wanted to buckle. “Hi.” The word left my mouth, lifting from my tongue into the air between us like a butterfly. Delicate and timid.

“We need to talk.”

Telling a person you need to talk never resulted in a good outcome. My heart raced, and I dared to meet your eyes. Dark circles, hollowed-out cheeks. You looked tired. Was this separation hurting you like it was hurting me? Why did you leave? The questions popped into my head, one after the other. 

“Ok,” I said, and I released my grip on the jeans, letting them fall into the basket at my feet. Your eyes fell to the taffy colored heap. Your lip twitched. You wanted to smile, I knew you. But, you didn’t.

“I need you to be stronger. This—“ You pointed to the kitchen counter littered with take out boxes and empties punctuated by stacks of unopened mail. “This isn’t you. You are tougher than this. Please.” Your voice begged me to be better. It made me hurt more.

Rosy spots flashed in and out of my sight. I worked to blink them away. You walked to the marble island and picked up one of my prescriptions. You looked to me, tears brimming on your eyelids. Your dark eyebrows furrowed upward. I wanted to hold you, to stare at you with my chin resting against your chest. After all this time—two home remodels, 60 plus concerts, countless conversations flowing into dawn, all the silly arguments—you were still the most beautiful human I knew. I still wanted you.

You set the plastic bottle down on the marble-top. The tap filled the silence. My silence. You exhaled a deep breath and braced yourself against the counter staring down at the floor, head drooped.

“Please,” you said, and you straightened to turn and go.

“Wait—“ Heat rose behind my eyes. “Please,” I said, rushing to the dining room. “I want to show you something.” My words carried into the kitchen. “I found our map, the one we drew up when we first started dating—the Concert Venue Tour of 2006.” I shuffled through piles of paper on the table. Ahh—found it! I clenched the folded parchment to my heart.

“I added a few new venues.” I hurried to show you what I’d come up with. “We could travel. I think it’d be good for us—“ I stopped short, my eyes scanning the kitchen parameter.

“We could at least try,” I whispered to the empty room. At the front of the house, I thought I heard the door close. Soft and gentle.

The counter looked like a mountain range. Beer cans, glass bottles, empty fifths, a couple 40 ounces. A bottle of vodka beaded with condensation, a small pool of water encircling it. I left it out this morning. The puddle reached a stack of mail, the ends already beginning to curl.

I picked up the envelopes, flipping through them. Tears plopped heavy on the mail. I brought my sleeve to my face, wiping at the drops. Water bill, internet, energy—I paused, blinking through the tears at a new bill. I eyed the return address. The bill represented my new life, my life without you. The world without you.

Clark & Foster Funeral Home

78543 Washington Blvd.

Alden, Michigan 49612

You always handled the bills.

I picked up my pills, popping the top. I washed the powdery white tablet down with the warm liquor. The back of my throat burned. My stomach rolled.

“I’m not ready,” I whispered.

“I know.”

Your deep voice blanketed me. I spun to face the hallway. You stood with your side resting against the bedroom door frame. You opened your arms.

“Come here.”

I ran to you throwing my arms around your torso and squeezing my cheek to the soft fabric of your favorite flannel. It was pink. I “ruined” the button up with the first load of laundry I did in our new home 12 years ago. You teased me, saying you’d do the laundry from now on. We laughed. We were always laughing. You told me you loved me more than your favorite shirt and continued to don the pink flannel until the day you died. 

The smell of detergent wafted from your warm chest. The tension released from my body; my limbs became weightless. I closed my eyes, smiling, and whispered into your shirt, “I love you in pink.”