Page 46 of My Lovely Tragedy
I watch it all with entranced amusement.
“Why don’t you go rest on the sofa for a bit while I get the sheets changed and find you some clothes.” My eyes flicker to his in the mirror as he lifts his head, chin dripping water, beard glistening, like it’s filled with small crystals.
He nods, drags a towel over his face, and walks out of the vanilla-scented room without a backward glance, muscles in his arms and torso shifting with every movement, no matter how small.
I allow myself a moment to gather my thoughts. To bask in the echoing silence, as uncomfortable as it now feels.
With a steady inhale of lingering austerity, I clean up the bathroom, wiping up the excess water, then place all the clothes in the hamper.
It’s not until I step into the hall that I feel the perspiration on my skin, trickling down my back. My fingers, weak and tingling, flex against my thigh as I tap a rhythm of three, eyes already searching for Brooklyn of their own volition.
I find him exactly where I pictured him—lying horizontally across the sofa, knees pulled to his chest, blanket wrapped securely around him.
A shield between him and the damning world outside.
His eyes are closed, shoulders moving slow and steady with each breath. I’m sure he is not sleeping quite yet, but it looks like he’s trying, so I leave him alone to clean the loft.
The bed is a mess, sheets stained, mattress molded to the very shape of Brooklyn’s glorious body. I find I don’t mind in the slightest—in fact, I eye it all with wonder.
The stain he has left in my room, in my life.
An everlasting token. For me alone.
I peel the blanket and sheets off—only because I have to—and replace them with clean ones, this time black in color. I then drop the dirty ones over the railing, where they land on the floor below with a soft billow of air.
Brooklyn doesn’t flinch at their impact, telling me he is most likely asleep now. Because of that, I don’t vacuum the floor—saving that for tomorrow—and set about finishing up. I gather a few glasses, the trash bin filled with used tissues, and a change of clothes for Brooklyn before I descend the ladder with my free hand.
Filled with a homely silence, I wash the dishes, trudge out into the snow to take the trash out, enjoying the sharp, cool breeze against my bare skin, and start the washer, filling said silence with the quiet rush of water.
By the time I have finished, my body aches, but it’s the rushed pounding to my head that steals my breath. I stumble back against the countertop, hands scrambling for purchase behind me as a wave of black flickers in my peripheral.
My stomach flips upside down, fingers weak and unable to form a grip. I slip downwards, falling into the stool. It clatters to the floor, launching my heart into my throat.
Brooklyn startles, shooting up from the couch. His hair surrounds him in a damp, chaotic halo, eyes slightly puffy and glassy.
He eyes me over the back of the sofa, lips naturally downturned. “You okay?” he rasps. I nod, swallowing.
Choking.
He stares at me for a second longer, and I fear he sees so much more. But then, he flops back, disappearing from sight. I can breathe again, exhaling the air captured in my throat, just below my uvula.
With a shaking arm, I pick up the stool and put it back in its rightful place before taking residence upon it.
Elbows digging into soapstone, I set my glasses off to the side and drop my head into my hands, fingers entwined. I dig the heel of my palms against my temples. The pressure makes it worse, but it helps lessen the ache all the same.
“Wanna play me a song?”
I glance over my shoulder, searching for Brooklyn with blurry eyes, but he’s nowhere to be found. And despite feeling like I could vomit at any second, I find myself smiling.
“Of course.” I shove to my feet, already feeling more in control with something to focus on. I don’t bother with my glasses, leaving them where they lie as I make my way to the piano across the room.
Only once the sleek black bench is beneath me and my fingertips rest against ivory keys do I allow myself to fully relax. Each muscle loosens. My shoulders fall away from my ears, and my right leg stops shaking, foot no longer tapping incessantly on the wooden floor.
“What would you like to hear?”
“Anything.”
My lips twitch. “As you wish.” My eyelids fall closed. Gently—reverently—I replay the first song of Brooklyn’s I heard, “Linear Disaster.”
