A Census of Lovers

Sloan froze when a photograph appeared on the screen. She dragged the page back up, certain her eyes had played a trick, and leaned closer to the light. A row of colleagues stood pressed together at the opening of a civic project, the ribbon stretched across the frame, every smile sharp with celebration. She barely registered most of them. Her focus locked on the man in the middle. The caption named him Blake, senior partner, innovator, mentor. She read the line twice, her lips forming the words while her mind clung to his face. His hair was neatly parted, his suit cut to flatter, his grin steady and sure. The angle of his cheek carried her backward in time. It was Nick. A year had passed since the funeral, yet here he stood again in daylight, alive inside another name.

Sloan pressed her palms to the desk and leaned closer until the photograph filled her sight. A tight ache gathered behind her eyes. The grin was too familiar. It carried the same spark she had met in parking lots when the world felt suspended around them. His cheek caught the light in a way she knew by heart. Even the tilt of his head drew her back to mornings when shirts lay folded on her kitchen chair, waiting like a secret left behind.

She dragged the photo to her desktop. The pixels wavered when she enlarged it, but even through the blur she saw the half smile Nick used for inside jokes. The tilt of his head carried the echo of his laughter, pulling memory straight into the present.

Hours slipped by in a blur of tabs. His company site stacked win after win. On social media he grinned with trophies, shook the right hands, raised glasses beside strangers. A gala photograph held her still. His hand rested at a woman’s back with the same casual claim he once carried into her apartment, the same slight lean when he listened. Everywhere she looked he was thriving, yet nowhere did she find the answer pounding in her chest.

Her coffee sat cold beside her. Outside, the night pressed heavy on the windows while she searched every corner of his life online. She found a wedding registry from ten years ago with china patterns and crystal glasses. A county record led her to an address she didn't recognize. A conference flyer listed him as keynote. Each new detail built Blake’s life, yet with every find she convinced herself more that it was Nick.

She kept searching, colleagues appearing in holiday photographs while their private accounts locked her out. Local papers mentioned his name in short blurbs about projects and events. Client testimonials called him generous and reliable. All of it built Blake, none of it proved Nick, yet she read on, clinging to the thought that it might.

Tears blurred the screen, but she wiped them away begrudgingly. She copied names of associates and opened their pages, following each connection as far as it would go, chasing through photographs of barbecues and graduations and vacations, leaning into each frame with the desperation of someone who believes that if she stares long enough a single gesture will betray the truth she cannot stop hunting.

The photograph waited beside the tabs. She returned to it often, enlarging it until the face scattered, then pulling back until it sharpened again. Every pass fixed her attention. She studied the set of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth, the intent in his eyes. Each line pulled her deeper into memory where Nick stood close at her back, where his voice colored the quiet of evening, where his absence filled every space he had once touched.

When dawn seeped into the room, Sloan pushed the chair back and the wheels rasped across the rug. She crossed to the window and lifted the blind a fraction, the gray wash of the street rising to meet her in silence. Behind her the photograph continued to glow, a threshold held open, the face within it shaped by grief yet alive in the city’s light.

The kitchen clock ticked as Sloan pulled the refrigerator open and the light fanned across the counter, striking the rim of a coffee mug and the edges of unopened envelopes. Glass jars caught the glare in quick flares while cartons sagged against one another. A bag of lettuce slouched in the corner, its leaves dark at the tips, and above it the freezer loomed with frost feathered thick along the seam.

When she opened the freezer, the first rush of air stung her skin like ice held too long in the palm. Frost clung thick to the boxes, turning waffles and peas into relics of another season. A bag of berries had fused into one solid block, and the edges of pizza cartons curled back on themselves, brittle from months in the cold. She pushed each package aside, the cardboard squealing against metal, until her fingers struck a shape with more weight. Its ridged lid scraped as she dragged it forward, a sound harsher than the hush of the kitchen around her.

She pushed the boxes deeper and a round container slid forward, its lid glazed white. Frost clung to the plastic, hiding the colors beneath. She wiped it with her sleeve, her breath fogging the lid until the letters came through, faint but still readable. The sugar smell rose as the ice cleared, sharp and stale. It was the cake from her birthday, left in the freezer, its script dulled but intact.

She set the box on the counter where envelopes leaned in untidy stacks, the cardboard sagging as condensation bled into the wood. She pulled open the drawer, paper napkins and crumpled packets rattling as she searched. Her hand closed on a flimsy knife, the plastic bowing when she pressed the handle down, yet the cake yielded at once. The frosting fractured with a dry snap, shards skipping across the counter in thin white curls.

The knife sank through at last, the slice breaking free with a brittle snap. She lifted it, the edges rigid, and pressed it to her mouth. Frost clung and numbed her lips until it melted, releasing a flood of sugar across her tongue.

The refrigerator hummed behind her. She bit again and the chocolate cut through the cream, the sprinkles dissolving in a faint sting of dye and sugar. Candlelight flickered across the table in her memory, the wax dripping onto paper plates while voices rose around her. Nick’s photo leaned against a vase, the glass catching the flame as if he smiled from inside it. She served everyone that night, but didn't eat. Now the sweetness reached her fully, as though the cold had been storing it for her.

She scraped the blade through the frosting and licked it clean.

She shoved the knife aside, clawed through the frosting with her fingers, and licked them clean before reaching back for more.

Her stomach twisted, but she stayed at the counter. The cake slumped in uneven ruins, its corners collapsing as it melted.

She stared at her hands, sticky with frosting, while her mind still numb, and reached for the towel. Pink and chocolate smeared across the fabric in uneven streaks.

She shoved through the clutter on the counter, jars and papers sliding under her hands until the knife turned up. Carrying it to the bedroom, she dropped to her knees in front of the desk. The point slipped into the lock, scraping metal, sliding off, catching again. She twisted harder, levering it back and forth until the mechanism gave a dull click.

The drawer eased open. Envelopes lay at the back in a neat stack, his handwriting crowding the paper. Photographs rested loose beside ticket stubs and postcards, the paper edges overlapping in uneven layers. She reached into the drawer, hesitated, then drew a postcard from the pile and flipped it over in her hand. Ink sprawled across the back in hurried loops, the pressure cutting into the card.

She set the postcard down and lifted a photograph from the pile. It showed them at a fairground, late light across their shoulders while the rides blurred behind. His arm hooked over her, his mouth open in laughter, her own face tilted toward him. The smell of fried dough clung to the memory, fingers sticky, children shrieking above the crowd.

The drawer held concert tickets, receipts from diners, napkins marked with his sketches. She lifted them, studied each, and set them aside in a growing line.

She began to return the pieces, arranging them as if the drawer itself expected order. Photographs went first, their glossy surfaces sliding neatly into a pile. She slipped the postcards beneath, then tucked the tickets and receipts along the side where the wood had worn smooth. The letters she placed on top, their envelopes whispering against one another as they aligned.

With a dull snap the drawer shut, and she left the lock hanging loose. She left the knife on the desk and stood over it, her palms pressed flat against the wood.

She stopped at the photographs on the wall. One leaned the wrong way. She snapped it straight, then noticed another out of line. Her fingers worked fast, sliding glass against plaster, shoving corners flush until the row aligned. Dust clung to her fingertips. She brushed her sleeve across the glass in sharp strokes, smearing dust, then scrubbed harder with the flat of her palm until the surfaces cleared, streaks of skin oil marking the shine.

For a long moment she stayed there, head tipped back, the pictures steady above her as if her touch had finally stilled them.

When she rose, her legs ached. She crossed into the garage and shut the door behind her. he overhead door that opened to the street remained shut. Darkness closed around her as she slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine caught and filled the closed space, its thrum bouncing off the walls. She sat with the car running, hands restless on the wheel, tapping, releasing, returning again. Exhaust thickened in the still air, and still she sat, the machine alive around her while the minutes stretched.

The car idled and her hands left the wheel, rested in her lap, then rose again, twitching at the turn signal, the radio knob, the seam of the seat. For a long stretch she only sat there, engine humming, the door still locked tight. When the ache in her chest pressed sharper, she struck the opener and the door groaned upward, the night spilling in.

The car rolled forward. Street after street unspooled, porch lights marking the way. Some glowed steady, some dimmed to a weak haze, a few flickered as if about to vanish. Her eyes caught each one, fixing the pattern inside her head.

At the first house she stopped. She killed the engine and waited in the dark across the street. The siding held its pale shine under the lamppost. Shoes lined the porch in pairs beside the mat. That had been Daniel’s place. He’d called her once after midnight when his wife was gone, the smell of whiskey clinging to him. They had met in the kitchen, the counter pressing her hips while he promised he never meant it to happen. It happened again anyway, quick and rough, always between other obligations. Now the porch light burned strong above his door, pouring over the steps, steady as if nothing had ever broken there. She sat until her legs ached with stillness, then turned the key and pulled away, the glow shrinking in the mirror.

Farther on she slowed before a narrow duplex of chipped brick, the fence sagging where vines gripped and tore at the slats. A bicycle slumped at the gate, its wheel bent sideways. The porch bulb sputtered, throwing amber flashes across the door in uneven bursts. David had lived here. She remembered sitting on those very steps, her hair damp with heat, his hand slipping under the hem of her shirt while cicadas shrieked in the trees. Their sex had been fast and reckless, laughter spilling after, the taste of cheap beer still on their mouths. The bulb fluttered again, briefly dimmed to nothing, then caught, and she stayed parked across the street until her fingers dug crescents into the wheel. Only when the light steadied did she pull away.

The avenue widened, shaded by maples that swayed overhead, and she eased the car to a stop before a colonial set back behind clipped boxwoods. Lamps glowed faint in the windows, but the porch itself was dark, shutters closed, the door hidden in shadow. Ryan had owned this place. He’d met her in a hotel first, drawn her into the weight of his practiced touch, then brought her here, where she’d climbed the stairs barefoot, her hand dragging along the banister, the hush between them thick as velvet. She sat with the car running, eyes on the doorway, waiting for the light to flare on. Nothing stirred. The engine throbbed beneath her until she forced the wheel forward and the house slipped from view.

She drove on, counting houses by their porch lights, steady beams and faltering ones fixed sharp in her mind.

At a small blue bungalow she cut the engine and sat in the dark. The porch light burned strong, a clear circle across the steps. Gary had lived here. She remembered the first time, his hand sliding under her dress before they reached the door, the urgency of bodies pressed against siding that smelled of paint and rain. After that they met in hurried bursts, his voice quick, his laugh rough, each time ending before the sun rose. Now the light glowed steady, washing the steps in gold while she sat across the street with her hands gripping the wheel, knuckles aching, eyes fixed on that door as if it might open.

Block after block she counted them, each porch light a tally. A townhouse where Jared bent her over the balcony while neighbors smoked below, the bulb above them burning without pause. An apartment of glass and steel where Michael pressed cheese and wine into her mouth before he pressed her to the floor, the entry light glowing clean and constant. A trailer where Tim claimed her in every way for three years, the lamp outside flickering low, always on the verge of dying.

The wheel pulled heavy in her hands, but she kept marking them, house after house, glow after glow, every doorway logged. When the streets gave way to neon, she coasted into a White Castle lot and cut the engine. The silence rushed in. She curled against the seat, clothes damp, hair sticking at the nape, and let her eyes fall shut. Exhaust and grease lingered in the air, but she didn’t move. Sleep claimed her there, the car a coffin of breath and heat, the census unfinished.

When she woke, the windows had fogged and her clothes stuck damp against her skin. The car smelled of sweat and sugar, the seat beneath her gone sour. Hunger pulled at her. She drove through the line at White Castle, ate in the lot, grease softening the paper bag, salt pressed to her lips. The food sank quick and heavy.

The Post-it waited on the seat, Blake’s address scrawled from the county record. She followed it beyond the strip malls, where houses widened behind trees. At the number she slowed. A swingset leaned in the yard, its chains slack. Two oaks rose over the roof, and shrubs sealed the edge of the property. She cut the engine and sat still, her eyes pinned to the windows.

Blake never appeared. She slid lower in the seat, her body sinking until the wheel blocked part of her view, her eyes fixed on the blank windows. In her mind he crossed the threshold. His arms lifted her, carried her up the stairs, laid her down on a bed she had never touched. Sheets cooled against her back as his weight drove her deeper, his mouth fierce at her throat, his hips forcing her body to answer. Outside, the swing set groaned, the chains striking metal in rhythm. Her hands clamped the wheel, nails biting at the seam, heat twisting sharp in her belly. The picture rose over her like weather, blotting out the car, blotting out the street, until the night itself seemed made of nothing but him.

Nothing but Nick. Or was it Blake?

She lost track of whose body she imagined, the faces folding together until even the name slipped. The windows gave nothing back. Then she remembered. Nick was gone. She started the car and pulled away from the house.

She turned down her street and slowed across from her own house. The porch light hung dark above the steps. In its shadow she saw Nick again, the two of them pressed against the siding, his breath hot at her ear, her body arching into his. The picture clung until the silence of the yard pressed her back into the seat. She started the car again, crossed the street, and eased into the garage.

She walked the hall again, the photographs she had straightened holding their places on the wall. In the front room she lifted the blind. Porch lamps burned clear along the block, each halo fixed in its circle. Blake stayed in the house she had watched. Nick stayed in the drawer she had opened. Both remained before her, neither fading.

Sloan lowered the blind and let the room darken. In the bathroom she twisted the knobs and steam filmed the glass. Clothes dropped at her feet. Water struck her skin and coursed down her body, hot streams cutting through the grime, slipping away into the drain while she stood beneath the fall. The census was complete. She only had to choose whether to keep it.