“I like you a lot, Dani,” I had told her.
She laughed. “I like you too, Alex.”
“I don’t want to date anyone else.”
“I don’t either,” she had said before leaning over and kissing me softly, slowly…right smack in the center of that restaurant. She’d never do that now. Neither would I, I guess.
All good things…blah, blah, blah.
The memory sort of pushed me toward her desk to look at the legal pad. I realized I had never really looked at her nonsensical chicken scratch before. Not in the entire twenty-two years we were together.
I glance down at it, not wanting to actually touch it, and I see, for the first time, her thoughts. In order from the top down it says,Rick; Jarren; bear in liquid; thirties pickle-ball instructor; Valentino; adjustments; bagels, wheatgrass; engineer; rat on porch.Some of it I can’t make out. It is, truly, nonsensical chicken scratch.
It isn’t much to read, so I flip the page where there is more of the same, and then halfway down the scribbling stops and what looks like a poem starts. I never knew Dani to write poetry. Intrigued, I read on.
Love Me Still.
Was that your pound of flesh?
I’ve been here for so long.
The furniture has moved,
covered the stains, all the traces of you,
there’s nothing left but here, in my mind, my body, my time, wasted, thinking about you. Wondering if you love me still.
Is this about me? Is this about Lars, that granola-eating tree-fucker? No, it has to be about me. It has to. I spilled wine on the carpet. The stain has been there for years. This must be about me.
I feel tormented wondering what this poem is about. I’m tempted to call her but I have no idea what I would say. I want to ask her why I didn’t know she was a poet too. Instead, I gather myself. I shouldn’t be reading her notepad anyway. This could mean nothing and I’m not sure why I even care. It’s hard to imagine a world where I don’t care even just a modicum, but I decide I better figure that out soon.
The sound of yelling from the other room breaks me out of my trance.
“Shut up and get out!” I hear Noah shout.
I storm into the boys’ room. “What’s going on?” Both are giving the other dirty looks.
“Ethan is treating me like I’m stupid because I tried making slime in the bathroom. I wanted to see if it would make a decent conductor.”
“Excuse me,what? I thought you were moving Nana’s stuff?” I say to Noah, but he buttons up, sits down on his bed, and crosses his arms over his chest, pouting.
I look to Ethan next. “I told him he was making a mess. He just kept blabbering about electric slime,” Ethan says.
“Electric slime?” I turn and look into the doorway of their bathroom, where I see a purple powdery substance all over the floor, along with some purple slime, I’m guessing. “What thehell, Noah? You’re playing with water and electricity? Are you insane? Get in there and clean it up.”
Noah begins crying. He curls into a ball on his bed. Ethan looks up at me and shrugs. “Well, that went well,” he says.
“Noah, get your ass up and go clean that mess. Have you lost your mind? Why aren’t you using that big brain of yours?” That was harsh. I instantly regret saying it.
Noah is in hysterics now. He can’t even speak. He’s beginning to hyperventilate.
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask. Ethan stands and walks out into the hallway. I’m staring at Noah in shock. “I haven’t seen you cry since you were like six.” Noah says nothing. “Get up and go clean it, now!”
“Okay!” he yells. He gets up and starts walking to the bathroom.
“What is your problem?” Ethan asks him.
“Nothing, leave me alone,” Noah says. Ethan is watching from the end of the hall.
