A New Day

The old woman never smiled. Yet, there it was. The thin line of her lips in an upturn at the corners of her mouth. The boy who found her thought she was sleeping, but the neighbors in the hallway called her “dead.” Something much more serious, apparently. The boy simply noticed how her skirt twisted as if in a twirl and her once puckered face looked relaxed and easy.

“Mama, it looks like she’s dancing,” the boy said. His shaking mother whisked him away.

Just two hours before, the old woman sat at her kitchen table in an entirely different state. Quite old, but not dead. Since her heart continued its habit of beating, she greeted another winter day. She wore her skirts in layers for warmth, but her ankles still ached. The woman couldn’t understand why such a small apartment was so hard to heat. Affordable housing. She would have rolled her eyes if anyone was around to see it. She could hardly afford to eat after paying the rent. And in return for her payment, she got to live within four walls completely devoid of charm. 

The old woman never went out. All she did anymore was read the newspaper to confirm the country was going to shit and flip channels to confirm there was nothing on TV. Still, she didn’t envy the outside world. Too many people flinging too much judgement. At least she was free of that. She couldn’t remember the last time she held in a fart. And she drank pot after pot of bitter black tea without a care for the way it stained her teeth. 

The old woman was on her third cup when she heard a knock at the door. Had she forgotten to pay the paperboy again? It couldn’t be a visitor because there was no one left who knew her anymore. It was probably someone who wanted something, but she got up to check anyway. It was a fine line between an annoyance and an intriguing departure from the sameness of her days. 

When the old woman opened the door, there was no one there. When she bent to pick up the paper it wasn’t there either. Instead, there was a small bottle in its place. Its purple glass nearly blended with the dark, stained rug of the hallway. She thought it might be a toy misplaced by the neighbor boy, but when she picked it up it felt quite delicate. There was also a tiny note attached that said “Drink Me.” She snorted a little laugh and took the curious thing inside. 

The old woman set the bottle on her table and stared at its smooth contours. She could not fathom where it had come from or why. The even bigger question was what lay inside and would she dare drink it. Her first thought was, “Of course not.” But, something about the color of the thing stirred the edges of her memory. It wasn’t just purple. Eggplant, maybe? The more she looked at it, the more she felt adrenaline rise inside her. An almost forgotten sensation, but one that started her leaning toward “maybe.” 

She glanced around her stale, silent apartment. “My God,” she thought. How the days had blended into years and then decades in this place. There was almost nothing here that told of who she was. She was countless things before becoming the old lady down the hall. She was even adventurous once.

“To hell with it,” she said out loud and gulped down the contents of the bottle. 

The very next thing she noticed was music playing. Trumpets and Louis Armstrong’s voice like glittering gravel. Her eyes cleared from a momentary blur. She was no longer alone and no longer in her apartment. 

The large hall was dimly lit. Young couples sat at tables or flirted in corners of the room. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on her table and she reached for it out of a long-buried habit. She stopped herself, startled by the plumpness of her skin that once again hid the bones and veins of her hands. She smoothed them over her dress and saw the color of the bottle reflected back in the satin of her skirt. Plum. Her plum-colored dress. Heat rushed through her as her mind caught up with her surroundings.

She knew this place, she knew the dress, and she knew the man making his way across the room. She could scarcely move. His uniform was crisp and his eyes were full of mischief.

“The night we met,” he said. His voice made her feel weak and buoyant at the same time, just like the first time she heard it. And he was just as real standing before her now. 

“Harold, but how?” she squeaked out past the lump in her throat.

“We never said ‘til death do us part, did we darling?” He pulled her close. “What did we say?”

“Forever,” she breathed into his ear. She felt him smile as he pressed his cheek to hers and pulled her onto the dance floor.

He leaned back and met her eyes. They searched each other’s sweet young faces and he planted a confident kiss on her lips. He laughed and spun her around. She felt like a doll in his arms. She’d almost forgotten. This man who loved bad jokes and good dinner parties. Who called her “angel” and made her feel like one. Who held her after each lost pregnancy, poured her a scotch and put her to bed. Who steered the ship of their lives until he died and sent her reeling. 

Her head felt a little dizzy, but absolutely nothing ached. She knew she had died, but always thought there would be more to it than this. She thought a moment and asked, “Have you poisoned me, Harry?”

“I was simply tired of waiting,” he said squeezing her closer. 

That certainly was Harry. 

“If I’d have known it was going to be this easy, I would have spent less time thinking about death and more time on my crossword puzzles,” she said.

“Oh darling, you were never good at crossword puzzles,” he winked. 

“No, you weren’t good at crossword puzzles. I’m great at crossword puzzles,” she gave him a shove.

“Well, we have eternity to argue about it,” Harry smiled.

“Is that all?” She relaxed against the warmth of his body.

Harry laughed and he spun the young woman until she laughed, too. The music played on and her skirt twirled as they danced.