Longing
The wind picked up, and he pulled his collar a little tighter around his neck. It felt like everyone knew who he was, lingering gazes following his movements as he made his way down the street. It's been this way for three years. Every morning he woke up, reached over to find the sheets cold on the other side of the bed. His heart would sink to the pit of his stomach, and he would roll over and let the sun from the window warm his skin. It was only the way he managed to get through his days; he knew it was pathetic, the way he filled every moment of his day to keep himself occupied, but it was what he needed to do.
His days were simply an occupation of time, each day the same thing happening at the same time, until he went to sleep, woke up, and did it all over again. His strolls around the city occupied his mornings and served as a memorial to her: He visited the same shops he visited with her, ordered the same Kaiser roll and fine parmesan that she loved, and stopped for a morning coffee and cherry Danish, her favourite, of course, at the same coffee shop that they frequented every morning of their blissful marriage. He would then come home around one in the afternoon, make a quick lunch, a salad with a light vinaigrette, raise a glass in her name, and set in front of the television for the rest of the day, eventually turning in for the night, embracing the cold pillow on the other side of the bed.
The thin worn soles of his shiny loafers felt the breaks the pavements as he walked. She had bought them for their anniversary. He liked the idea of wearing those shoes every day, the memory of her fragile fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow as they strolled in the late evening would enter his mind each time his foot would hit a bump or a crack in the ground. She was beautiful, the way the streetlights would catch the hollows of her cheeks where her skin had loosened, and her eyes would shine with impish mischief belonging to her youth. With him, she was young, and with her, he was indestructible.
He often kept his eyes cast downwards. He watched in his periphery as the girls in the storefronts gave him watery smiles, the wave of their dainty fingers as he passed. They knew him well, the sad man smartly dressed in a suit that bought a paper, bread and a bit of cheese every day. They learned to anticipate his visits each morning. He would open the door, and they would greet him with over-enthusiastic smiles that left him feeling more empty than he already was. But he reciprocated, not for his own benefit, but for theirs. He would comment on the state of affairs of the government or the weather, something trivial that he could offer, making them feel as if they’ve truly brightened his day by having this one simple interaction. He would pay his bill, thank them, and leave. They would watch him go, wondering how this sad old man manages by himself, wondering if he had children, where they were, if he was really alright. But as the rush hour begins, he becomes a fractured blur in the hustle and bustle of the morning.
Three years since she had been gone. But every morning it hurts just as much as the day she left him. He was terrified of the day when it would become easier. That day would bring a realization that she was never coming back, and an acceptance that she was never coming back. And with that acceptance would bring a slow dissipation of her memory, and that was a thought that he absolutely could not fathom. Here he was, three years later, walking the same route, averting the same looks, trying to wallow sorrowfully and silently, squeezing every last bit of her out of each day, like the last succulent sacs left in a juiced lemon. He stood a little taller as he approached some early morning diners at a nearby café, his bag of bread and cheese dangling from his weathered fingers as his shoes drag slowly and softly among the stone and pavement, imagining her walking slowly astride him, laughing her thick whiskey laugh as they go.