the prologue to a story I wrote (actual story is in first person)

Imagine a dinner party. The table is set for eight, and the husband and wife hosting the dinner are bustling around. The wife wears a designer apron though she has cooked none of the food. The food was ordered from a catering service two weeks ago in advance, and has just arrived. The husband wears a tuxedo, and is used to these bimonthly dinners. The table is mahogany, and a chandelier is hanging over the table, swinging precariously due to a breeze coming through the open window. There is heavy concealer on her right cheek, but it doesn’t hide the bruise. She wears a dark blue dress that reaches her ankles, accentuating her silver high heeled shoes. She is adjusting his tie as they laugh over an inside joke that has lasted through their decade-long marriage. Maybe the wife is wearing pearls, maybe she isn’t. It isn’t important. The dinner is set by candlelight, and the people coming are family friends who the couple has known for years. Dinner will get cold.

The wife calls up the stairs for “Helen, Helen!” before entering the kitchen again to maintain an air of having actually prepared a meal. There is no response, and the husband purses his lips slightly before hearing the doorbell. He walks to the door. A lone umbrella swings in its stand. When he opens the door, his face breaks into a charming grin. He knows them, and how could he not? They are the elite of the neighborhood, just like him. He welcomes the group of five into the foyer. They remove their coats and put them in the closet specifically set aside for this occasion. They enter the dining room and make the appropriate admiring noises required for such a function. The wife bustles in with a laugh and a silver platter, upon which a spiral ham cooked to the perfect temperature rests. Wineglasses clink and toasts are uttered. The dinner commences, and soon the room is filled with persiflage.

Imagine traveling up the chestnut stairs to the second story. Enter the second room on the left. A girl is sitting on a white bedspread across from a gold-framed mirror. She glares at her reflection with fists clenched. Piercing grey eyes glare back, set in a heart shaped face framed by long curly strawberry blonde hair. She feels caged in this pink room with quotes from songs pasted on the walls, despite the bookshelves that promise escape. She is not technically a prisoner. She is allowed to leave the room.

They argued again.

In fact, she is expected to go downstairs and make small talk with Ryan, the son of one of the visiting couples and one of her best friends. What teenager wants to make small talk? She is not in the mood to see Ryan, even after making every effort to spend her entire life in his presence. He was born two months prior, and as a result fancies himself as knowing more than she does. He does, but that’s unimportant. Ryan knows that she prefers reading about long ago battles than going to stupid dinner parties and verbally sparring with the guests. She believes those stories-whether they happened or not -are the most interesting in the world. Her parents are expecting her and Ryan to be married within the next five years, hopefully during or following college. She loathes them for this, not so much because she finds the idea unappealing, but more because she wants to be able to choose her own life and that includes selecting one’s own spouse. She already saw him today.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She wishes to launch a thousand ships as her namesake did, Helen of Troy. She is certainly pretty enough, some might say beautiful if she was in a smiling mood. The dress she wears is stunning, a glitzy silver number that cling to curves she does not have. Tonight is a special occasion, apparently, and she has been warned to behave accordingly. This translates to ‘keep your temper in check so nothing abnormal occurs’. The dress cost more than she has ever spent on any item of clothing in her life, leading to more than a little curiosity about the news. On her feet, however, are seven dollar tattered red sneakers from Forever 21. She kicks them against the metal bedframe in defiance, delaying her descent down the stairs for as long as possible. Little does she know that she will never hear the news.

He hit her.

 Right now she hates everything. Her face is slowly turning red in concentration, loathing and loathing and loathing every second she has to spend in this uncomfortable dress with these wretched people. She hates her parents more than anything else in the world. Her father is too strong and her mother is too weak. An open perfume bottle starts to tremble on the dresser, almost as if it is also trying to escape this situation. Her eyes briefly narrow and the bottle tips over, spilling vanilla-scented liquid onto the wood. That will not get out easily. She does not care. She emphasizes this by standing and exiting the room in all her besneakered glory.

He’s not even my father and he hit her.

She walks across the hallway to the master bedroom. She approaches the door. The floor is vibrating and she doesn’t know why, doesn’t care why. She reaches the doorway. The master bedroom is directly above the dining room, and she can hear the vapid conversation. She feels nauseous and furious. Her teeth are gritted in hatred for all that her superficial parents represent, such as the need to impress housewives and lawyers. She has a feeling something monumental is about to happen, but she does not know what. She thinks about her father yelling and her mother cowering, memories from behind closed doors that only she has ever been privy to. Her mother’s jewelry box is shaking. She watches it with disinterest, and then trains her eyes on the floor. Below her is a dinner party set for eight. Only seven are seated. Can you imagine this? Try harder.

The armchair is inching towards her, a snake in the grass. The jewelry box crashes to the floor. Necklaces and rings and bracelets spill out. Pearls are crushed by the box, and the flooring cannot muffle the noise. Downstairs, the husband and wife freeze mid-conversation. The room goes silent, only the swinging chandelier making any noise. They exchange nervous glances. Not again. The lamp on the left bedside table falls to the floor, and the other lamp follows suit. Broken glass soon spatters the carpet, and it is mixing with the broken jewelry. The floor is creaking loudly underneath the white carpeting. Despite all this, she has not moved from the door. Her mind is blank except for white hot rage. She hears the husband and wife rising from their seats. Ryan is almost to the stairs and he is yelling her name. Her eyes suddenly go wide.

Ryan.

 “RYAN!” The girl screams, thinking to warn him to get out, to escape before it happens, but it is far too late. The wrath has been released from its cage and is eager to play.

All of this is happening in a matter of seconds. All at once, there is a giant ripping sound. The floor has disappeared from under her and she falls.

When she regains consciousness, she is spread-eagled on a mountain of broken glass and wood. There is no sound save her heavy panting. No one else is alive.

Blackberries, a short story

Blackberries

There were so many first times for us.

Once, you came into the emergency wing complaining of a sore knee. Three years ago. The first time I saw you. That was the first time you went out in the open, instead of gliding around by the darkness of the trees planted in the pavement. Who walks to the hospital (for there were no cars parked outside) in the middle of the night to be treated for knee problems? You, apparently, and we both knew why. The nurse on duty, Sharon, kicked you out; after all, it was a Friday night. In fact, I am sure that was the night that fifteen different teenagers came in with complications resulting from synthetic marijuana. You and your sore knee were not welcome at all. I came in just as you were leaving, grumbling to yourself about how impersonal hospitals are. (We don’t have the time or the money to be personal.) You limped by, eyes cast down on my blood-splattered shoes. I’d had a hit-and-run that night; the assailant in question was another ambulance, if you can believe it. There was going to be a lot of paperwork that night; that was not my problem. I was far too occupied with wheeling the barely conscious man inside. My shoes were stained, and no matter how hard I tried to get the blood out, it remained. To this day I still have a pair of sneakers with dark splotches on the toes.

-Nice to see you again, you muttered.

I didn’t reply.

Again?

It could have been fate.

--

We talked first on a bus.

Today the M14D going crosstown is delayed in the midst of a freak snowstorm. I am already extremely hassled because the L train is out of service, due to some death or other. I wanted to help, but they already had several medical personnel in that particular car. I had to gather up my shopping bag at six o’clock in the morning and depart the station in question, bundled up in my warmest coat with my pills in the secret pocket. Flurries of snow are falling outside the windows, and I can testify to their actuality: crystallized ice is caught in my eyelashes and my nose is bright red from the chill.

The bus is delayed due to a domestic disturbance between a woman and her teenage son. She is yelling at the poor boy, who cowers, reduced to a frightened animal in front of all of us. We avert our eyes as he whimpers: -Stop embarrassing me in front of strangers!

For that gem he receives a resounding slap. Screams go up about child abuse, about how she must be sick in the mind. I try to continue listening with one earbud in to my favorite song, a Greek song that I don’t even recall the name of. That is when an elderly man tries to calm her down, stepping in front of the boy. The woman goes bat-shit crazy, brandishing her umbrella over her head. More people involve themselves in the spectacle, the driver still trying to contact his dispatcher.

We have been at the second avenue bus stop for twenty minutes now. Men and women with still no idea of what is happening up in front lean forward, each with one hand on the horizontal pole above their heads. The fingers overlap each other in the sweaty impersonal way that is New York City public transportation as they yell for the bus to start moving.

-Drive already! they yell, adding on their personal touches, saying that they have doctor’s appointments and work and a daughter in the hospital they want to visit before she dies-that particular sentence causes the rest of them to quiet down for a moment. I briefly wonder if I brought her in; I might have, but the faces all blur together. I can’t remember how many children I bring in every day, and she might not even be a child; the woman who screamed it is perhaps fifteen years older than me.

Eventually an announcement reaches us in the middle that the bus is going out of service. Outside the bus, I see a slightly overweight, unshaven man holding a croissant. He must be the dispatcher. We all file off the bus, some still complaining very loudly about how ridiculous this is. We wait huddled in a mass of suits and jeans at the bus stop, laughed at by construction workers sitting far above our heads on unsteady scaffolding. When we board another bus, I see a woman and man sit next to each other, virtually strangers yet bonded by this mundane ordeal. I learn from overhearing that he used to live in Jersey City, but now resides in Peter Cooper Village, a complex of brick buildings surrounded by playgrounds only accessible by the residents. Somehow they start discussing their favorite childhood television shows like the Jetsons, the only name I can catch.

I stop listening for the few minutes it takes us to reach 5^th Avenue. I am still busy trying to figure out how I am going to pull this off. I have what I need. When I resume my discreet eavesdropping, they are now discussing their very first dates. By the time we get off the bus (for they get off at 8^th avenue same as me), I see them exchange phone numbers and secret smiles like the entire bus didn’t just witness them. They’re going to have a great meeting story to tell their children. I buy overpriced gum at the candy stand in the subway station, chewing on the artificial melon like it’s a drug, enough to make me stop envying them their unforeseen happiness.

We were once on a bus during a delay like that, but not the same bus. Not even the same route or year. You were holding a rolled-up newspaper in your hand, eyes darting about the vehicle. I was very absorbed in writing a tribute to my aunt, who had recently perished due to a cancerous tumor in her eye. This was before that six thousand dollar surgery was created to see if a tumor was malignant. Even if that had been available, there is no way we could have afforded it on my meager salary, which was barely enough for both groceries and my heart medicine as it were.  You tried to read over my shoulder, craning your dark-haired head in every direction to try and read upside-down. You nearly lost your grip on the pole. Finally I looked up and saw you in an odd position, half the passengers staring at you in amusement.

-What are you reading? you asked.

I didn’t bother to tell you that I wasn’t reading, I was writing because no one else had cared enough about Julienne to come up with a couple sentences to describe her. I didn’t bother telling you that it was rude to read over someone’s shoulder, which would have been slightly hypocritical as I do much the same on the days I don’t have anything to peruse during my travel. I looked at your vaguely familiar face, that kind of face you can see a thousand times and still not be able to describe to a police sketch artist. You could have tied me to my chair and robbed my house with nary a ski mask in sight and I wouldn’t be able to give much more than dark eyes.

I rolled my eyes, and in a burst of inspiration I said

-Obituaries.

It wasn’t too far off the mark, and it was weird enough to say with a grin across my face that you would back off. You didn’t back off. Instead, you grinned back.

-Obituaries are my favorite part of the paper.

Then it was your stop and you stepped off. I didn’t watch you go, returning to the article. My pen traced the six words I had written last night with tear tracks on my cheeks, trembling on the paper, the ink messing up the sentence. I had to restart later.

--

We could have met by my saving your life amid the ruins of a plane. If I could manage to save your life. If I bothered. There were a lot of people, and some were children.

That was the first time I realized you had hobbies other than me.

We were the first ones on the scene. I had gone by helicopter with Juan to get to the beach fast enough. Everyone was scared out of their minds. There were not only passengers of the plane moving weakly on the sand, but also women in their bikinis. Children were also in there, something that always gave me pause. Some of these people had just wanted a day at the beach. I sorted through the wreckage alongside paramedics from all different hospitals, some that I knew but most total strangers. We worked diligently to save as many as we could. Out of the original two hundred and forty one passengers, one hundred twenty six are in critical condition and thirty are dead, including a toddler whose chubby hand is clamped tight around a seat handle. I had to close my eyes briefly. I had thought I was deadened to all the sorrow you get from death; I was wrong. Somehow seeing that child reminded me of how I wanted kids one day. I didn’t want my children to end up like this, clutching onto something that promises to help and then doesn’t. That day was difficult to get through. I put it on that morning just in case.

Later on I was cooking Pad Thai from the box, heating it up in the microwave. The television was on in the other room, and you were speaking. It was the news, showing footage from that horrific event that would most likely get less than two days of airtime. I had put the volume up all the way to hear over my neighbor’s party-driven cacophony. Your voice was shaking, and so was I, but to the Latin music blasting from the apartment upstairs. What did you have to say to that reporter? You were probably clutching your heart and wearing a very nice pinstriped suit that didn’t entirely match the dramatic look on your face. I only heard, not saw, but I could imagine the reporter’s face struggling to pull down into a frown of sympathy and failing due to the Botox.

-I almost got on that plane. I could have been hurt if I didn’t change my mind at the last moment due to the most ridiculous thing; a soccer game was on that I didn’t want to miss.  Thank God for small favors. I almost died.

Almost.

--

We could have met that time you stole my datebook.

I walked up the narrow termite-eaten steps of my apartment to find my door slightly ajar. I had definitely locked it upon departure. I was already exhausted from one-and-a-half shifts (thank you Reggie-short-for-Oregano for getting mono from your girlfriend) and was not in the mood to chase a thief. I walked in slowly, frightened despite knowing that they were already gone.

In my bedroom, the window was smashed. I could see muddy footprints leading down the fire escape. When I leaned over the rickety fence separating my balcony of sorts from the air, I could see dark hair disappearing. When I called out, you whirled around for a split second. Our eyes met and I knew that mine were widening in dawning horror.

Everywhere.

I see you everywhere and now in my house?

You kept running.

My top drawer was gaping open. Underwear and bras and socks spilled from it, dangling over the floor or already having completed the journey down. I ran to it, fearing what I’d already thought.

My planner was gone, and with it, the numbers of countless friends I’d made during my shifts and everywhere else. The worst part was that my name and address were in there. I didn’t care so much about the address, because they already knew it. I was afraid of identity theft.

Identity theft? I was that narrow-minded.

You now knew the name of your target.

And I knew the name of my hunter, because you left your ID card for your office building. I used the card to access your medical records. Amazing how much you can learn from those nifty things.

Oh, I learned all about you. We were now on an even playing field.

--

There were also the days we could never have met. There were days when I didn’t leave my house, especially when I was experiencing heart palpitations. I would just pop three pills, one more than was recommended, and lie down on the couch with Friends reruns in the background. I’d shop online crazily. 

One of those times is when I bought the ticket on a whim.

You were probably at your job as a children’s book editor. I had read your interview in some magazine. 

You said that the best part of being a children’s book editor was accepting something completely off-base in the hopes that it would catch on as a trend; you seemed to be really good at that, according to the magazine. I wonder if you dated casually; you never had any wedding announcements in the paper. Did you check for my wedding announcement? I should have put one in there, just to frighten you.

--

Bloomingdale’s doesn’t stock my perfume anymore. It’s sad. I guess it was limited edition, but I bought it anyways.

Delicious.

I bet you would love it.

You love everything else about me. One of my bras never resurfaced after the theft. DO you happen to know anything about that? Are you building a shrine?

This is a game of cat and mouse, and it’s funny how the tables turn.

--

I go to get the newspaper every morning at my local bodega a few blocks away. I suppose that I am losing money by not just getting a subscription, but the short walk wakes me up in preparation for my long commute. As I walk down my sidewalk this particular, I notice the city seems for the most part an odd kind of cheerful for four am. I even see a bird fly over my head, twittering noisily like the sun is shining high. I press the button on my tiny flashlight clipped to my belt loop, smiling inadvertently at the small circle of light that is produced and starts traveling with me, lighting up the pavement. Within it I can see my running shoes, bright red under the warm glow. They alternate between showing up and hiding themselves as I walk. Back, forth, back, forth until I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk. No longer smiling, I stare straight ahead.

I give the guy a dollar to cover both my paper and a fifty-cent bag of pretzels, which I munch on as I return home. As soon as I get inside my apartment, I open the paper. I ignore the headline, something about a drunken starlet’s third stint in prison, and flip through until I reach the obituaries. My aunt’s should be showing up either today or tomorrow.

It is not the name that strikes me, cleaving the air from my lungs. It is the face. The obit itself is pretty mundane. The people who wrote it didn’t seem to have any information about him save his occupation and age (two years younger than me), so they just inserted his funeral details. Most likely his company paid for it in advance. It doesn’t even inform me how he died. I knew he was following me. I had seen him enough times to realize it was no coincidence. I have to go see him off, as a sort of last goodbye.

When I get it into my head that I am going to the funeral, nothing dissuades me. I am not discouraged by the screams I get from my superior when I inform her via phone of a death in the family (how many times will your family members die? They drop like flies!) or deterred by the fact that I have only one black dress. It is a little tight, and I suck in my stomach embarrassedly when I look at myself in the mirror. I needn’t have bothered; black is slimming. I note this with no small amount of smugness, despite the fact that the only person I will know at this party is lying in a box. Thinking of that, I am reminded of something.

-Let me cover my bases, I mutter to myself.

I go to a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag purchased maybe six months ago and then shoved in the back of my closet. It is large, but nearly empty. I remove a tube of purple lipstick and swipe it across my lips deftly. I pull out a small perfume flask. I sniff it and break into a grin. Humming to myself with secret glee, I apply some blackberry fragrance mist in the hollow between my breasts and dab a little behind my ears.

It’s my favorite flavor, and I bet it’s yours too.

I then examine myself in the mirror.

-Let’s hit a funeral.

Quavering in my black heels, I wait on the curb. They’re actually dark brown, but I am hoping no one will notice. A couple next to me stands impatiently, hands avoiding each other in a strange dance I watch idly. The girl notices me and asks what I am dressed up for. Caught by surprise at the question, I respond quickly, stammering about the funeral, avoiding some key points. She asks who died, and I try to think of a way to explain. That is a bit personal for a complete stranger. I don’t have to respond, but seeing her earnest face I feel I should confide in someone. I tell her that he is someone who knows me better than I know myself.

-How long have you known him? wonders the girl out loud.

I say some sort of response that causes the boyfriend to insert himself into the conversation. Whatever I’ve said, he feels the need to pull her away from me and she soon settles into a debate with him about her name, which I find a little off-beat but endearing. When the light goes, they go so fast that I cannot keep up on these modern-day torture devices that enclose my feet. Thinking about how you limped that one night, I limp in the same manner until a pleasant young man asks if I need help walking. I sit on the subway with trepidation about the coming service.

Outside the funeral home, I read the board. There are four funerals being held today. The names mean nothing to me. I stare at them for a long while. Which one are you? Are you Manuel Ramirez? You certainly aren’t Marisa Delaponte.  You can’t be Nigel Oliver, who is apparently being buried with the Sloane and Ryan of the same last name. That’s horrible. I wonder what happened. Maybe a fire? It’s none of my business. You aren’t Nigel. You must be Christopher Donaldson. Why can’t I remember your name? I remember everything else about you. Your job, your broken leg in third grade, your brief battle with asthma as a toddler… I will ask the secretary.

When I enter the funeral home, I walk up to the secretary. The young woman has a nametag that states Mesa. As in, Spanish for ‘table’.

She is lazily painting her fingernails, which makes me realize that my exposed toenails are a chipped pink. Maybe I should have touched it up before arriving-no matter now. I can’t exactly turn around and go home, can I? I decided to do this. I pull at a loose thread in my pantyhose, creating a long run down my thigh. Seeing this, Mesa’s eyes widen in disapproval.

-Yes, may I help you? She doesn’t sound like she wants to help me.

-Hi, I’m here for a funeral.

-Whose?

I drum my fingers on her desk for a moment while formulating my words.

-I don’t exactly know? I try. No dice. She picks up her phone, untangling the cord from around her nail polish bottle. She waves one hand in the hand to dry her nails, speaking very fast but low into the phone so I cannot hear. I check the time.

The sun is still sinking over the horizon like it has been doing for well over an hour. Get on with it, I want to say. I would but then people would think I was crazy. At this point, I don’t know if I care.

5:42 and the sun hasn’t set. A name I can’t remember, a face I can’t forget.

-Look, I’m going to Christopher’s funeral. I was just playing a game. I’m his girlfriend, well not anymore. Now I’m his stepsister. I wildly embellish, spinning a tale of woe and mayhem stolen from multiple soap opera storylines that has her mouth hanging wide open. Mesa pauses just long enough for me to slip by.

When I first walk in, heads turn to view me with expectation that is soon replaced by confusion. Who am I? I am not a relative. Maybe I am an old girlfriend, come to say my final goodbyes. The body is the centerpiece, the attraction, yet everyone seems to be avoiding the coffin. It is closed, making me wonder exactly how bad the body actually looks. A small black-and-white photo rests atop the coffin, showing a small boy with a pensive look on his face. Someone has hurriedly scrawled Topher on the bottom, the pencil marks barely showing up against the picture.

This picture looks nothing like the man I came here to say goodbye to. The way this is set up, it is as if a child has died tragically. It is almost as if they either don’t know or don’t want to think about how he was as an adult. What did he do? I have no idea and am not exactly sure I wish to find out. I scan the crowd, but no faces pop out at me. This really is a party full of strangers; no, I am the stranger. This is their comrade, their brother…and what is he to me? An attentive fan, to put it lightly.

I look around me to see if anyone is watching. Everyone is watching. Shit. I unclasp the latch on the side of the coffin to swing it open, half blocked by a large fern. Thank goodness. It only opens a little, but I peer into the shadows.

There is nothing there.

I let it slam closed. Everyone gasps, whispers arising. If I thought everyone was looking at me before, I was sorely wrong. Now every eye in the room is trained on me, although most skip over my face and go straight to my figure. Smiling apologetically, I quickly walk over to what I assume is the refreshments table. It is instead a memorial table in which you can fill out a blank card to be buried with him. The cover pictures range from kittens in a basket to the Grim Reaper in a gas station, the latter seeming a little offensive given the circumstances. A bowl of mints sits on top of a pile of stationary. I pull a cat card out and take a pen. What to write, what to write?

Nobody’s home.

I sign it with a flourish and slip it into the finished pile, just in time. A cousin of some sort sidles up to me and introduces himself as Den. I smile at him weakly, looking around for an escape. I should be so lucky. In his capable (and wandering) hands, I quickly learn the family gossip. The heavyset woman in overalls? She is the estranged mother come all the way from Georgia (That’s his Southern accent right there).The bawling blonde yonder is his buxom boss. He laughs, with a playful nudge.

-Say that five times fast.

I do, perhaps a little too loud, which garners more than a few glares. Finally I get away from Den, excusing myself to go to the bathroom. I walk down the dim hallway, or rather stagger. These shoes are agonizing. This is when I bump straight into a tall person.

The person crashes to the floor under me as I fall flat forward. Heels. Never again. A light flashes on; it must be some messed up automatic mechanism that only responds to distress. A laugh rumbles under me and I sit up on top of him, pushing hair out of my face. That is when I see your face. His face.

This is what I wanted, no? I knew it.

I knew it.

Nary a word is spoken beyond follow me. He obliges.

We are tearing each other’s clothes off, kissing furiously in the closet. I the uninvited and he the guest of 

honor. I’m glad I came as I did, but he’s dead, for Pete’s sake! Although the coffin…

 -You’re dead. They are holding your funeral. I murmur, momentarily distracted when he catches the tail end of funeral with his lips. This man who has been for so long a vanishing shadow behind my building is now a voice in the dark, muttering how fucking beautiful I am as my bra unlatches. He looks at my breasts for a long moment. My shoulder blades rub against the scratchy wool of coats. It is so cold that my nipples protrude starkly in the shadows. His breath against them tickles me as he bends down.

- I imagined them this exact way.

I wait for him to respond to the first question, which he does.

-I had to get you to meet me.

At this, I laugh, albeit a bit nervously. -There are more conventional ways.

-I didn’t know your name.

Your words make me forget for a minute that we are in a closet at your funeral, quite the scandal. Lies. You do know my name. You stole my notebook. I almost remind you of this but restrain myself. Once, you called out my name from the second aisle while I was grocery shopping, but chickened out.

I knew it was you.

I saw your hair disappear behind the cereal display. Ten percent off if you have a membership.

-Besides, who hasn’t wanted to see their own funeral? I must say, there is a lot of crying.

I glance down at his dark hair, barely visibly in the shadows. It rustles against my bare skin. I grip a handful of it in one fist, tugging gently. His tongue, raspy and wet, drags across one breast.

-You taste like blackberries. He says in surprise.

-Why, thank you. I murmur.

Those were his final words, tinged with faint alarm that underlay the lust, before he went rigid. He falls back from me with a thud, knocking the door open. That was unexpected. Yellow light spills into the recesses of the closet, and I instinctually reach for my shirt, forgoing the bra. It didn’t cost much anyways. Seeing he is unconscious, I drag him out into the hallway to administer CPR. (futile, futile) The muffled shrieks he makes are heard from inside the funeral parlor, and many people soon arrive to watch in quelled horror as I blow heavily into his mouth.

-Call 911! I scream at them when I notice no one is moving. They were in the midst of their beloved’s funeral and now have to deal with some strange harlot vaguely recognizable as one of the guests yelling at them? An elderly couple faint in shock, hitting the floor with loud thumps that awaken the rest of my audience to the situation at hand. They take out phones and jabber into them, pressing buttons as fast as they can. Suddenly he stops moving about on the floor. I press my ear against his chest. Shallow breathing. Shit.

“Is he allergic to anything?” I yell at them (I know I know I know), but of course they don’t understand. They don’t realize yet that the man they were mourning already is now dying right in front of them.

He starts writhing on the floor, foaming at the mouth. By the time EMTs arrive, I have confirmed he is having an epileptic fit. My eyes are wide. They know me; the paramedics who arrive view me with acrimonious glee. 

-Wow, Sheryl. You never catch a break. Their words drip with false sympathy. They bring out all their equipment from their truck, but it is far too late.

When the medical personnel ask his mother if her son had any allergies, she reacts with confusion.

-My son was fatally allergic to blackberries, but my son…my son is dead.

-She’s right. says one man, looking up from the prone body.

I can’t say it officially, but yeah, she is telling the truth right now.

Christopher is pronounced dead at his own funeral, to the shock of all attendees save myself.

-My son!

The mother is screeching with born-again grief, sinking to her denim-clad knees. The people mill around, whispering about whether the funeral will be rescheduled. Someone suggests that they just do a quick fix-up and proceed as planned. This is met with titters from those assembled. I almost join in, but am too preoccupied with rising to my feet, touching my still-tingling lips. I touch the area behind my ear and bring it to my nose. The scent of freshly picked blackberries.

The dead should stay dead.

Does anyone know how he would have gotten access to blackberries? You there, what was served food-wise?

-This funeral parlor didn’t serve anything but mints!

-The mints were pretty freaking stale, by the way. Considering how much we paid for this service, you would think they’d shell out some quality candy.

It’s funny the little things people zero in on in the wake of so much more.

-I didn’t know he was alive!

I don’t look back as I slowly exit the building, my coworkers yelling after me to stay. Another fresh scream arises.

-He was my son!

-He was my stranger. I want to say to her, but I’m already walking across the street, click-clacking hurriedly. I reach into an unseen pocket and withdraw a printed out plane ticket, a spur-of-the-moment online acquisition. I unfold it and smooth it out on my palm, eyes scanning its contents quickly. The airport isn’t far, a couple stops by train. I sent my luggage ahead. Only one question still remains in my mind.

Did you really think I wouldn’t do something?

You were a silly boy, being so interested in my life. You were so curious you followed me for three years. You stole my planner, you stole my life. I couldn’t go on one date for three years because you would pose as a waiter and upset the water pitcher on his lap. Remember that one? 

Mark never did call me back.

*********

End