He is sitting in the mahogany chair next to the double bed. Behind him, a window and outside – life. The air feels thick, suffocating. Net curtains dance lightly as the wind blows through the gaps in the pane, though the breeze cannot reach him. Birds are singing, their voices penetrating the single glassed windows. As soon as they reach the bedside they fade. He has been sitting here for ages, staring at nothing, thinking of endless spaces. The bed has sucked all life out of the room, yet he cannot leave. The body, carefully placed between clean sheets, does not move. Just lies there like an immortal stone untouched by the dying birdsong. Like a thief, stealing days, months, years of memories which also belonged to him.
It does not smell yet. She could just be asleep. His own hands are wrinkled, the wedding ring loose. This is the first time he has noticed.
Long, bright nails on slender fingers, a white cigarette held with her diamond clad hand. All possible shades of red: her light red dress, the small fleshy cut on her left thumb, the expensive red wine. Behind the transparent tobacco smoke which she slowly releases from her bright red lips, past the red velvet curtains, the Paris traffic is passing on wet asphalt. Her big, hazy eyes are moving between him, the ashtray and the steamy road. She smiles, everything is in slow motion. Kind of Blue is playing unevenly in the background, their conversation drowned out by the buzz. He studies the mark her lipstick has left on the side of her glass as the candle sends its reflection across the table. Her pale cheeks narrow as she inhales the last drag, leaving the butt to die out in the ashtray, a stray flame burning a hole in her stocking, just above the knee. He does not know how to dance but asks her anyway. They get up, giggling as they approach the empty dance floor. They dance. Dance and turn until the whole room spins around, around...
...and around. When he opens his eyes birds are no longer singing. The room is turning dark. He can only vaguely see a shape under the covers. He rises from his armchair, legs shaking. He goes to her dresser and lights two red candles before leaving to climb the stairs to the loft. He returns with a dusty record player and Kind of Blue balancing on top. He puts it on. At first all he can hear is the fragile sound of needle against ancient vinyl, but soon music fills the house. He leaves the music on loud as he goes and gets his wife’s favourite dress. He dresses her gently. The curtains are still dancing their sad dance. Now he can feel the breeze. He breathes.
The body does not smell yet. Everything is beautiful. She might just be asleep. He goes to the bathroom, gets his sleeping pills and prepares himself for bed.
Long, bright nails on slender fingers, a white cigarette held with her diamond clad hand. All possible shades of red: her light red dress, the small fleshy cut on her left thumb, the expensive red wine. Behind the transparent tobacco smoke which she slowly releases from her bright red lips, past the red velvet curtains, the Paris traffic is passing on wet asphalt. Her big, hazy eyes are moving between him, the ashtray and the steamy road. She smiles, everything is in slow motion. Kind of Blue is playing unevenly in the background, their conversation drowned out by the buzz. He studies the mark her lipstick has left on the side of her glass as the candle sends its reflection across the table. Her pale cheeks narrow as she inhales the last drag, leaving the butt to die out in the ashtray, a stray flame burning a hole in her stocking, just above the knee. He does not know how to dance but asks her anyway. They get up, giggling as they approach the empty dance floor. They dance. Dance and turn until the whole room spins around, around...
...and around. When he opens his eyes birds are no longer singing. The room is turning dark. He can only vaguely see a shape under the covers. He rises from his armchair, legs shaking. He goes to her dresser and lights two red candles before leaving to climb the stairs to the loft. He returns with a dusty record player and Kind of Blue balancing on top. He puts it on. At first all he can hear is the fragile sound of needle against ancient vinyl, but soon music fills the house. He leaves the music on loud as he goes and gets his wife’s favourite dress. He dresses her gently. The curtains are still dancing their sad dance. Now he can feel the breeze. He breathes.
The body does not smell yet. Everything is beautiful. She might just be asleep. He goes to the bathroom, gets his sleeping pills and prepares himself for bed.
Jessica Nero has degrees in English Literature but has spent the last few decades creating grassroots journalism and blockading arms factories. She is an immigrant living in the UK and is currently experimenting her way back to writing creatively. She occasionally tweets @Yetthewindblew
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