A Brittle Tuxedo

The night air was fresh. She was returning from a jog, one of the many activities she tried and failed to integrate into her daily routine. Slowing to a walk, she crossed the street, stepping on the pavement she crossed every weekday to make the bus when she was young. She walked up the steps to her home and was about to enter when she recognized the pristine silence surrounding her. She paused, doorknob in hand. Her memories of life here were marked by the vibrant sounds of the community: laughing children, barking dogs, and occasional sirens in the distance.

Tonight, however, the silence was suffocating. She felt as if she were living in a ghost town, a cul-de-sac of empty homes and lost souls. She heard a faint rustling behind her. Removing her hand from the doorknob, she turned around to face the street. 

The moon shed a soft light on the street-lamps, homes, and mailboxes around her, smoothing their edges. But there was something, something in the center of the street, that was not illuminated. She had no sense of what it was, other than that it reflected no light. She began walking back down the steps. As she moved closer, the object began to reveal itself in greater detail, seemingly growing outward, slowly morphing into a human form. Her jaw tensed. 

Continuing forward, she stepped up to the edge of the sidewalk. Now only a few feet in front of her, it was clear that it was a man. She tilted her head to the right and squinted. A tall man, dressed in a tuxedo.

She wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

The silence persisted. She extended her leg to step down onto the street. When the ball of her foot made contact with the road, the man became visible to her. The light on his upper body and face had no origin, but it shone upwards, sharpening the edges of his figure. Startled, she removed her foot from the street. The light dissipated, but the tall man remained. She wanted to look around, to see if anyone else was here, but she didn’t want to take her eyes away from the man.

She cautiously placed her foot back down onto the road, and the light returned. She looked at him carefully. His arms rested at his sides and his upper body curved, like someone had a hold on his chin and was pulling down. She noticed slight tremors in his head. It was trembling from side to side. He was looking at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his stare. The corners of his mouth were bent, forming a smile.

She knew this man, or at least sensed a vague recollection when examining his body and face. She could recall a warm sensation in her chest, the result of downing a shot of vodka. She went on a date with this man once. She learned of him through a mutual friend, and they met up at a bar. He went out of his way to meet her, as he lived far away. She remembered the face he made when he saw her expression when he entered the bar wearing a tuxedo. That night, from what she remembered, was uneventful. She went home afterwards and fell asleep. She woke up the next morning to a phone call from her friend telling her that he was murdered later that night in a home invasion. Her friend was crying too much to hear her when she asked if his home was the one invaded, or if he was one of the invaders.

He blinked, looking down at her. She was puzzled, inspecting him. She had seen pictures of his funeral online. Few attended it. She said his name. He remained motionless. Her first thought was to call someone. Maybe this was a misunderstanding, an insensitive prank of some sort. She reached out to touch his arm. His suit was brittle and cracked at her fingertips. She pulled her fingers back.

He pressed his eyelids together. “Come,” he said, without opening his mouth. Her hand began to rise, reaching out towards him. She resisted against the movement, but her hand persisted. It nestled itself in his palm, and his long fingers wrapped around her own. She had the urge to scream, but couldn’t pry her lips apart. “You’ll learn,” he said.

Her hand in his, he began slowly raising his arm. The night sky burned away, revealing  golden sunshine. Once he brought her hand above her head, he clenched his fingers, cracking her knuckles. The crunching sound reverberated around them. Echoing off the surrounding homes, the sound rose higher in pitch, until it reached a sharp screeching. She doubled over and covered one of her ears with her free hand. Wincing from the acute pain, she shut her eyes.

The sound dissipated. She warily released the tension in her face and opened her eyes. She was in a bar. People stood all around her, frozen in mid-action, smiles plastered on their faces. Sitting in front of her was the pale-faced man, still dressed in his crumbling tuxedo. He was the only other person capable of movement here. He uncrossed his legs.

She wanted to ask him what was going on, but failed to open her mouth. He noticed her confusion and wanted to console her. He pointed at her forehead. She brought her hand to it. She felt raw bone, and her hand became damp with blood as it sank into her open skull. He spoke, again, without creating a gap between his lips. “Sophie, you have died.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “You were jogging. A car turned. You didn’t hear it.”

Sophie only looked at him, and she remained calm. She felt as if she had known this information forever, that it was ingrained deep within her. Rather than fear, she felt a despondency she hadn’t experienced since that day, weeks after her sister’s death, when she realized she’d never see her again.

“After dying, one is given the opportunity to relive a single memory, so long as those in the memory are also no longer living.” He craned his head around, scoping their environment. The hazy fluorescent lights lit his face in a creamy green. “I waited a long time. I am glad to finally see you here.”

She tried to speak. She managed a weak “this,” before the man stopped her by resting his hand on hers. She could have withdrawn her hand, but she didn’t. He nodded slowly, reassuringly.

“Yes,” he said. “This was the memory I waited for. The time we spent here, together, made me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was looking forward to spending more time with you.”

She felt pity as she gazed into his eyes. His face was regaining its color, his tremors had stopped, and his jacket was becoming less brittle, more firm. He placed his other hand on the table and she held it.

“I want to waste time with you,” he said. “I want the two of us to sit here and not say anything, like we know there will be time in the future for us to say everything we’ll want to say.”

She nodded, as she felt his hands saturate with flowing blood. They both inhaled and exhaled, matching their breaths. His crooked smile melted into a genuine one at the sight of her own. They sat there for hours. For the first time, Sophie felt a complete absence of thought. There was nowhere to go, nothing to become. Here, now, and nowhere else.

At a certain moment, Sophie began to think to herself, it’s time to go. This thought didn’t originate from another; it rather came into its own being. Still looking into his eyes, she realized the man had stopped blinking, and had perhaps not blinked in a long time. She stopped feeling the presence of his hands against hers, but he hadn’t moved, and their hands remained together. She stood up and looked down at the man. In front of her, she saw herself, sitting where she had sat. The two of them were seated, motionless, holding each other’s hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

Sophie made her way to the exit of the bar. She turned around and observed the room. The man and herself were one of many figures, each locked in a stance. The others were all frozen mid-motion, pouring, drinking, laughing. She was glad to have had little memory of the original version of this night, and was able to relive it. She took one last look at the man and left the building. Everything remained still.

Standing on the curb, Sophie breathed in the night air. She recognized for the first time how fresh it felt as she sent it through her body. She exhaled. It was now her time to take advantage of the gift she had been given. She started walking, in any direction, not knowing where she was going, but knowing what she’d do when she’d find her.