Saint Mary’s

He carried a pregnant quiet, and a snow-like powder rested on the collar of his shirt. He once heard his wife describe his eyes as burning red. Perhaps. What he knew was clear to her was his unhappiness, he remembered this in the seconds that currently elapsed as well as in every frame beyond these breaths. Still, he could not shake this feeling off; he did not know any better.

He remembered when she said, “I am leaving. Is there anything you need for the house before you’re left to yourself?” And she felt him wince. He did not know any better. It would be easy to say his melancholy was etched into his skin by his wife, by waves that came and went, but more recently only came, in which his marriage seemed to unravel like poorly patched fabric. He could only wonder if the tailor of this fabric had been him, if he had somehow poorly fit it to their needs, too big or too small, too thin to ensure resistance. Her; she remembered the moment his eyes went off but was never able to quite point out the trigger, first seeing the darkness in his study in the house they held on Saint Mary’s. Their eyes both intertwined in a way that made her stomach sink, swallowed her spirit whole, so much so she could only run away. “We could talk about this,” he had said when she was standing on the doorway, eyes with patches so dark they were part of the outdoor night, skin so frail it clung to her bones in quiet desperation. But that day, she continued in her cold-like ways, “I don’t think we should talk much more about this. If you’re okay, then I will leave. And if you’re not, well, I’ll give you whatever is needed, and then I will leave,” because Mrs. Smith could see clearly the miseries that he had put her through, and she had put him through, and how no amount of words would patch it up. But she knew herself to be weak to the knees when it came to Mr. Smith, and that despite his bloodshot eyes and the trembling in his hands, the melancholy that invaded their bedroom and he tucked under their pillows like children shedding teeth, she would listen. And most perilously, she would stay. 

In a practical way, he did not need her, she knew. He still had enough money left if he ever decided to put his life in order, and their beautiful children were already grown and married. They loved him dearly, as it is easy to when disaster happens so many miles away; it blends into poetry and theory. She had tried, gone out of her way to be understanding. Do you want to talk, do you want to go to bed? Here’s this book, here’s a lullaby I learned to play in the piano you used to enjoy playing yourself. But even after everything — after every damn thing (and when remembering this while speaking to him, she tucked herself back into place, ordered the tears to the back of her head), after everything, he did not stay. Maybe in body, but never in the soul. 

Quiet talks near the fire, boredom in his eyes but more so an escapee’s disposition. As if he would like to be anywhere but where he stood. She consoled herself, thinking about days when he loved her, looked at her ardently, like the fireplace burned, adored her as he does misery.

Standing where he now did, memories rushing back to him, lumped into five seconds that felt like another’s life, he most of all remembered her grace. How his wretchedness had led to her carrying it like a weight, holding her own beauty and intelligence as if they were baggage, full of questions of when had he gone wrong. He stood near the ocean, as mourners do. Tears gently went down his face, and the seconds went on ticking. He had loved her, as anyone in their right minds would have, but he was no longer in his right mind. His heartbeat was high while he was low. He did not know if it was because of the mere remembrance of her blonde hair in the summer air, or because of the powder lodged deep within his being, or because he stared at the ocean and panic rose at the thought that he did not know where at the end of it he could ever find her. He injured her enough to run away and injured himself enough to get only as far as their old house on Saint Mary’s. 

After she decided she would leave, he had decided he would say something, must say something. But he said nothing. Mrs. Smith wished he had only not given up that easy. 

Why had he not embraced her, begged her to stay? But why did he want him to speak? She was clear on her disposition, and he seemed to be blurry in his. He nodded, and then his head stood still, and then he nodded, again. He shifted his weight, left foot to the right and then left, again. A pause so palpable, those that tend to haunt connections once plagued with laughter, making the words spoken through time heavier than they would have been, memories of roses and kisses in cars become daunting. Decorating thought processes with different endings has never been enough to change them, and Mrs. Smith knew this well. 

He left, he nodded right outside the door, and then he kept walking. And tears welled up in Mrs. Smith’s eyes as she punished herself for being so foolish, for wishing anything other than what she was allowed to get, and then hating him fervently for making her think her ending might be any different. 

And he remembered going to the tavern and sitting down, and then he did not remember much else. Memories on memories, different conclusions, floating quotations of what had been said in a decades-long marriage, now destroyed thread my thread by the man who currently stood on the beach, surrounded only by the sound of waves and his watch ticking. How can one replay years of misery, wretchedness, and guilt that bestowed themselves upon his heart? How could one do so in a matter of seconds? 

He cleaned up his collar, dusted it off like you would a kitchen counter. The doorway to their — his wooden cottage, awaited him. He thought it might be the only thing that ever did.