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He functions like a machine, cold and autonomous, remiss and lacking a feeling or thought. In the night when she sleeps he wanders the streets in search of something, of anything, to remind him of what it once was like to care. Crows and badgers and rats abound. The light shifts as he passes beneath it, wary to shine upon his disheveled face. The ghosts that follow stay at a distance. They know better than most, better than he, where the faults lie. They know who he truly is. One, on occasion, will saddle up next to him, stinking of sulfur and regret, to coax him in this direction or that, to a path less taken, or to one familiar from before. He walks, unresponsive, a breath of ice on the palms of his hands. The ghosts serve their purpose. They stay. He knows. All wander through the night. Nothing ever escapes.
In the morning it is cold still and he is returned to the bed where she sleeps. Still awake, never really at rest, he lies motionless, staring at the ceiling like some impassive statue. The ghosts sit at his side, waiting for him to start the day. The dog barks, the cat purrs, and so he rises to feed the lot of them, careful not to wake her. She doesn’t smoke and despises when he does, but he does it anyway: on the patio, alone in the car, at a bar, in the lobby, anyplace and every place. He hides it, chewing gum and brushing teeth, drinking and eating, anyway and every way.
“How did you sleep, sweetie?” she asks, a touch of night still lingering in her voice. “Well?” she adds.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he says, regarding the question with no special instance. “It’s cold. Is the heater broken?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll have to check it.”
“Don’t you work today?”
“I haven’t worked in eight months.”
“Really? Where have you been going?”
“Town. Around. Here and there. Don’t you remember?”
“I guess I forgot.”
“That’s weird.” He goes into the living room by way of the stairs, certain that she has surely lost her mind, comforted that she has finally caught up to him. In the hallway the dog eats, playing with his food, putting it in his mouth and spitting it back out. Back and forth, over and over. The cat sits on the couch, on the top cushion, resting its head against a beige wall.
He fixes a cup of coffee. She’s in the shower, he can hear from below, so he goes out the back door and enjoys a cigarette. Steam from the coffee mixes with the smoke and the heat from his breath in the frigid air. Their dog, a small, brown-colored Labrador, walks past him and out to the lawn. He rubs his face against the grass and rolls over onto his back.
“Some things, Rex,” he says to his dog. “I don’t know.” He sips at his coffee. Rex barks at a bird. A plane flies overhead. There are people on that plane, he thinks, people who know more than me, love more than me, feel more than me. I want to meet those people. Just one. Ask them about their life. Where they’ve been. Who they’ve seen. I want to live their life.
He puts out his cigarette in the planter then flicks it over the fence where the main road sits. “Come,” he says to Rex from the doorway. The lab walks back into the house and sits in the corner. He watches as the man closes the door behind him. The cat pays no attention.
