Sepia Silence

The first thing River Sea unpacked was his suit. 

Throughout the train ride, the very small, faraway spot in his brain that was usually dedicated to whatever Wren was saying at the time started acting up, Imagine that expensive, dashing three-piece creasing with wrinkles because the big, bad porter haphazardly threw it in the trunk. Just imagine. 

Which River thought was ridiculous considering he wanted to set out two weeks before her to avoid this kind of satanic whispering.

It wasn’t anything knee-jumping, less than an itch, really. Still, he couldn’t get to the house fast enough.

The door opened with a nasty creak, a patch of light thrown on the dusty marble floor. It must’ve been something grand in its prime, but the gilt on the windows long gave way to the metal underneath and the frescoed cherubs turned solemn sentinels in the sepia morning glare. And as River toed off his shoes at the entrance he wondered whether just accepting the high-rise hotel room Wren was set on would’ve been the lesser evil. 

He toured the place, the soft pad of his socked feet echoing throughout the house, filling the ghostly hush with the quiet, restrained movements people who find themselves alone in idle mansions are prone to. He flicked on switches on his way, checking which worked and which he’d have to replace, mentally compiling a list of which rooms to clean out first.

 He eventually made his way to the master bedroom, previously his grandparents’ but River figured if he didn’t think about it too much and didn’t use his imagination he could sleep on their king-size quite comfortably. Think about cupcakes, Wren would advise in the dreamy monotone that made her a victim to countless ‘say no to drugs’ interventions. 

River unzipped his maroon suitcase and carefully hung his suit into the bereft closet with the air of one reverently bestowing offerings upon a temple. He stared at the solitary clothing for a while, feeling the squeeze around his chest relenting and the exhaustion seizing back its rightful throne. Kicking the open lid of the suitcase back, he collapsed onto the bed, dust rioting in response. The consequential sneeze sounded like thunder booming through the halls, and turning onto his side, hand pillowing his head, he tried to ignore the sandy feeling in his fingertips and toes that so often accompanies orphaned houses.

Tomorrow, he decided before his thoughts muddled into an amalgamation of so-and-so’s breasts and so-and-so’s lips, he’d bust out the vacuum. 

It was when he was rolling up the faded Persian carpets of the men's sitting room and beating the living dust off them that Wren came to mind. River rubbed his sleeve over his irritated nose and entertained an off-hand fantasy of welcoming her to the opulent harbourer of his boyhood days with a hug. The place would have to be more than dust-free by then, he wouldn’t let her walk through a dead house; he wouldn't make her go through the morning hush he’s trying so hard to sweep out. His eyes glazed over as he imagined bright chandeliers delighting the wallpaper and summer breeze visiting through open doors.

It was nice for the two minutes before he remembered the last time he tried to pull something like that on her and she sneezed in his face. He frowned at the memory and decided that she could roll around in a pigsty for all he cared.

Still, by the time he was done, River couldn’t feel his arms and it took an entire night’s sleep to chase out the numbness.

River was knee-deep in decades-old refrigerator gunk, contemplating whether just writing it down as a lost cause and catapulting the appliance into a ditch would be the wise man’s move, when he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass door of the oven.

In the stained reflection he saw his dark figure kneeling on the mouldy kitchen carpet- one that he would definitely have to strip off later and replace-, his gloved hands blackened with what he could only describe as the lovechild of the rotting lettuce and the adjacent block of colourless-demon-food moving in the corner, and his clothes muddy and irreparably tarnished by the sludge that kept streaming down in lazy globs. 

River couldn’t very well run a hand dashingly through his hair so he settled for tousling it with his shoulder as the sudden clarity descended on him that his once-perfect image being ruined was all Wren’s fault. His nose crinkled as he remembered why she suggested this getaway in the first place:

“Well, it’s just that, River,” she had started, voice lethargic, “the crazy in your eye is starting to scare children, and maybe your coworkers are right about you being high-strung, and maybe I have the perfect solution.”

He had hoped that that might be a smooth segue into Wren producing a deliciously decadent negligee and launching herself at him. That was not the case. But her eyes weren’t as dreary, and if he squinted then he could almost see them marginally focusing on him, and she said ‘vacation’ and ‘only the two of us’, and River was only human.

He sighed, poking a broken nearby broom at the demon-grub, he concluded that a) its twitching was probably only rigor mortis and b) maybe if Wren kissed his cheek coming in, he would forgive her.

He rocked back onto his haunches, resting his chin on his knees and thinking he was so far gone he’d probably forgive her the second the taxi pulled up. 

He finished the rest of the kitchen that same day and spent the rest of the evening with a book he couldn’t focus on, one that eventually slipped through his fingers as he dozed off upright on his seat.

There were two days left before Wren arrived when River finally decided to man up and tackle the juggernaut that was the basement.

It’s not like she’s going to come down here, he thought viciously, plodding down the stairs. But then a memory of his grandmother came to mind and he yielded the fact that this house hasn’t been loved properly for too long.

A bag filled with lightbulbs and miscellaneous hardware that River heaved with him to every room thus far was considerably lighter now as it knocked against his legs, metal and glass tinkling like fairies. He focused on their anchoring sound ringing through the quiet, his pounding heart joining the symphony.

Almost two weeks and the quiet emptiness still caught him unawares.

 He breathed in and experimentally flicked a light switch on, then flinched as it blew out, sparks lighting the room. It was just enough illumination for him to glimpse a stepladder leaning against the wall. He walked over and reached for it just as the bulb gave out, plunging him into sepulchral darkness. 

It dropped like a black curtain around him, and he stilled. The entire house weighed down on him as if the ceiling was going to fold over any moment, and he hysterically went over all the reasons basements were safety hazards. The tinkling wasn’t reassuring anymore, forget fairies it sounded like reapers ringing harbinger bells of death. And River handled it for all of two seconds before the breathing down his neck started to take form and he remembered people could die from the cruelty of their imaginations, and he turned and booked it up the stairs.

Slamming the door on whatever howling ghost was chasing after him, he slid down onto the floor, swearing under his breath. He leaned his head against the door and decided that he and Wren could do it together later, he could even sneak in some subliminal newlywed couple banter into the mix. 

Yeah, he thought, breath evening out, Wren. And then, shit, the lightbulbs.

He figured that they weren’t going anywhere and then decided to drive to the busiest square in the city and sit there for a while, if only to make sure he hadn’t forgotten how much he hated crowds. If only to make sure ladies still ogled him when he walked by.

It was late in the night when he came back and River slept with all the lights switched on, burying himself in the duvet and thinking of how he might fling himself at Wren the second she opened the door and how he should warn her in advance. 

River sat on a freshly shampooed couch in his suit sans the jacket, hands in a death-grip around a bouquet. Which was stupid because Wren didn’t like flowers but maybe she’d smile at him. Maybe she’d thank him.

He angled his watch toward him, knee hopping with impatience as he checked the time. His leather shoe squeaked against the glossy floor and only then, with his reflection staring up at him, did he feel that it was all worth it. 

He ground his foot into the tile again, the squeaky clean squeal of marble gratifying, when the doorbell imperiously sounded. River flinched bolt upright and ran a hand through his hair before shaking his head once for optimum debauched allure. Taking in a lungful of air he marched to the door, bouquet clutched in his left hand as he turned the knob with his right. 

And he had a thousand things he might have wanted to do in that moment, and seeing her in the doorstep haloed by the morning sun he wanted to do all of them at once. 

“Wren-” he started, his voice carrying too much breath.

“River, move out of the way, please,” she interrupted softly, arms full with luggage as she shouldered past him, already heaving her luggage to the nearest closet, straight-to-business. Her lilting voice rang through the halls as she passed commentary on the house, “I admit, River, I didn’t have high hopes for this place but it seems to have held out over the years. Very impressive murals on the ceilings, too. How grand, really.”

“Uh,” River replied eloquently, following her to the master bedroom, trying to tamp down the wrongfooted feeling that things weren’t quite supposed to go this way, and that Wren should’ve followed the script.

But then she turned from hanging her clothes in the empty closet that River hadn’t touched since he hung his suit that first day, and the yellow chandelier glowed off her raven hair, and the carpet was littered with her bags, and her heels were casually thrown in the hallway, and he didn’t hear the ringing silence anymore and smelt her petrichor scent instead of the dust, and she turned to him and her lips lifted partly as if a full smile would take up her quota of effort for the day, and she asked him, “And what have you been up to?”

River swallowed his planned serenades, and shoved the bouquet at his heart’s dearest, deciding screw it as he replied, “Lots of stuff, actually. Scraped out a breathing spawn of rotten produce and dairy from the fridge that made me think of you.”

Wren hummed non-committedly, lifting her eyebrows at the roses then dropping them next to her suitcase, turning her back on him. And River huffed a laugh, not knowing why he expected, or wanted, anything else from his most beloved.