Crickets

           My dreams are filled with the sound of crickets.

           Then my eyes open and the sound evaporates, replaced by the hum of silence.

My eyelids feel crusty. An ache is already twisting into form in my joints. My knees are stiff, and I have to bend them a bit to work them up to standing.

I’m not twenty anymore. There’s no denying it.

           I stand and stretch. Much like the frame of an old house (though sadly lacking the, as they say, “good bones”) I creak and pop as I settle. I head to the bathroom but look pointedly away from the mirror.

           My hands grasp for the tap and I sip at the cool water. Raising my head to the window, I can see the frost, whitely opaque through the cold glass, just starting to cling to the still-determined grass of the front yard. The patches of crabgrass are still standing strong.

           When we first stood on that lawn with the “For Sale” sign clutched in our hands, a blazing red “Sold” sticker slapped across the front, we saw only the potential.

“Imagine how the new windows will shine when the evening light hits.”

“We can sand the floors here, re-stain them. Really help bring out the character.”

“Once we pull the weeds, we ought to make this a flowerbed.”

 I carried her inside and together we pictured the colors we would put to the walls, the lights we would install, the pictures we would hang. Such small things that to us were grand.

           I pour a bowl of cereal, sloshing milk over the side. I’ll clean it later.

           As I pad to the table, light just beginning to filter into the kitchen, I remember our first night: frameless mattress on the living room floor, lights dim, a bottle of whatever we thought expensive between us. Later, it lay discarded as we christened the place.

“Don’t worry about the spill. It’ll be replaced soon anyway.”

Soft laughter, fading light.

           I place the empty bowl in the sink, then make my way back to the bedroom.

Jeans or khaki? Short sleeve or long? Decisions…

           We had unpacked it with such energy, the bedroom. (The priorities of two barely-twenty-two-year-old kids held a strict hierarchy, and food and toiletries had fallen somewhere further down the list.) She had pulled her hair back to keep it from her face. Concentrating. I often asked her why she didn’t just cut it. Toss the hair ties, just wake up and go. “I’ve thought about it before,” she’d say, “but I’ve worked so hard to get it this way.”

           Freshly dressed, (“freshly” being used rather casually) I pull open the outside door, the cold slapping my cheeks and rolling down my throat. My car waits in the driveway, muck caked around the wheel wells, dirt splashed on the windshield. I face the bite of the wind head down and lower myself inside, unsure of my destination, but sure that I am going somewhere. I’ll know it when I get there.

           “We’ll build a garage. Somewhere you can keep all your man-cave junk.”

           “I have a man-cave?”

           “You will.”

           “My God. I think I might love you.”

           Turns out, my destination is the coffee shop on Main Street.

It’s warm inside, comfortable. The heat emanating from my cardboard cup raises bumps on my arms. I sip. It soothes the chill, if only temporarily. I could, I think, sit here forever, just sleep in the booth, or in the back room among the coffee beans where it always smells earthy and whole.

           “What’s that smell?”

           “Dunno. Something in the sink.” She rummages through the cupboards. I drape my jacket over a chair.

“Are dishes still in there? Could be old food.”

           “I didn’t get to them yet, sorry.”

           “It’s fine. Just may want to light a candle or something...”

           Several groups of laptop-toting students enter as I reach the dregs of my cup, and I quickly stand, toss it into the bin, head past them and out.

Cold again, like a snap.

I rush to my car, my cheeks pink. A lone jacket would’ve once done the trick, I’m sure. Now, I scold myself for not bringing a hat and gloves.      

           Gravel crunches as I pull back into the drive. The sky is just beginning to cloud over, casting shadows on the lawn. A lone tree sits in despair, branches drooping, its limbs–now barely sprouting leaves in the spring–sitting bare and chilled. I really should’ve cut it down long ago.

           I climb the porch steps, (third board up giving a small squeak) and drop my keys trying to unlock the door. Once inside, it takes me a moment to wriggle them free, their metallic clank echoing in the buzz of silence.

           “Can you stop please?” From the other room.

           “Stop what?”

           “That, whatever that is. I’ve gotta focus.”

           “I can’t exactly help it, it needs done. Trim’s full of holes, goes all the way through to the wall. Damn mice are gonna keep getting in.”

           “You’re doing that now?” Closer now. “Can’t it wait? I’ve got a test in the morning.”

           “Babe...”

           “It’s like eleven at night. It can wait until tomorrow.”

           I lower myself to the couch. Flick the channel to something mind-numbing. Lunch comes and goes. I make a sandwich. Flip through Facebook. Ms. MLM is vacationing in Florida. So and So’s son had his graduation party (so proud!). One of my old high school buddies had to put his dog down. Sad react.

           “Can you please get off the phone?”

           “What? I’m listening.”

           “What did I just say?”

           “…I…you were talking about that new position. You were hoping to get it, right? Or...Babe, I’m sorry, look…” I lean forward, taking her hands. “It doesn’t matter to me, okay? I mean, no, not like that, I just...I know you wanted it. I know that. But we’ve still got time. Other opportunities will come along. You’re perfect where you’re at. And maybe…I don’t know. Maybe this is just the way for another chance to come forward.”

           Tears in her eyes. She rubs her sleeve along her nose. “Maybe...”

           Her hand on top of mine.

           My phone blares in my face and I jump, blood surging to my head. When did I drift?

           My boss.

           Sure, I can come in tomorrow. No, it’s really no trouble.

           Yes, I’m fine, just tired. Busy day…

           I end the call, the room now edging on navy. Shadows stretch. I stretch with them.

           “What…where are you going?”

“Emergency. I have to cover.” She is pulling on two different shoes. Stops, corrects herself.

           “You’re not even on call tonight.”

           “I’m know, I'm sorry. There’s not a lot I can do.”

           “I thought we were gonna have dinner together tonight.”

           “I—"

           “Tell them no! Jesus, when was the last time we actually ate together?”

           She stops, hand frozen on her shoe.

           I close my eyes. Deep breath.

           I walk to the kitchen, pour another bowl of cereal. It feels like cheating. I eat it anyway.

           “Babe–”

           “No, don’t. Don’t do that. You don’t get to do that. You’re always, ALWAYS covering shifts. I seem to remember that we were going to have a ‘relaxing night in’ last week, but Johnny So-and-So just couldn’t make it, so of course you just had to help out. So no. Don’t do that.”

           I walk to the bathroom, undress. Stand under the shower. The water is boiling, but it is a welcome burn against the cold.

           My shoulders are too tight. My head is starting to throb. I need a hot shower.

           “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m trying to help us have a little extra so we actually have a chance to do all the things we talk about doing. My mistake. I won’t make it again.”

           A step back, like I’ve slapped her. “Seriously? And what exactly do you think I’m doing? Working my life away for the fun of it? My God, you are so right. Amazing.”

           My feet slip slightly on the tile. The mirror is fogged over.

           “Stop it, you know I didn’t mean it that way. I know you work hard, I tell you all the time—"

           “When?” Another step back. “During our five minutes of conversation before we leave in the morning? Or the two minutes at night before we go to sleep?”

           I pass through the living room. There is a faded pink splotch on the carpet.

           “This isn’t—Jesus, I just wanted to have dinner with you!”

           “You don’t think I would’ve liked to?” Her keys fall as her arms fly. “You don’t think I’d rather be here? You don’t think I’d rather be eating with you and—and cuddling on the couch or whatever? Stuffing my face, watching TV. Instead I’m going to be up all night AGAIN, and you’ll be gone when I get home, and—and…”

           I don’t bother dressing as I fall into bed. The sheets feel cool against my skin. I face inward, my arm outstretched.

           She’s crying now, and the heat melts away. I have her wrapped in my arms before I can think to do so. Her fists are knots against my back.

           “Hey, hey. Breathe. Just breathe. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

           Something whispered into my shoulder.

           I close my eyes, darkness beginning to envelop me.

           “Next week. Say Saturday. Neither of us will cover, no matter what. Okay? And we’ll stuff our faces and watch TV and fall asleep on the couch, and we definitely won’t wake up with terrible backaches.”

           Soft laughter. My shoulder is damp.

           “Okay.”

           “Okay. We’ll get through this, alright? We will. We’re stronger than anything life can throw at us. I promise.”

           She tilts her head back and brushes her lips against mine, briefly, gently.

           I clutch the empty pillow in my hand. My body feels weak, wrung.

I will my thoughts anywhere else. Outside, across town, across the world, away.

Anywhere but here.

           Then I pull the pillow to my chest, and drift asleep to the sound of crickets.