We Fall Together Seperately

They have less and less to say to one another. They bring out the apparent ‘It’s raining’ or remark on destruction ‘Isn’t it terrible what’s happened to Haiti’ or exchange civilities ‘Please pass the sugar’. But nothing important. No, never important, impertinent, long-lasting or relevant. They are slipping. Slipping off the same iceberg from different ends, both unwilling to rush to the center if it would mean they collide. and collapse in a heap of shared frustration.

One morning he boils her some tea, brings her the newspaper in bed, fixes some toast, spreads some strawberry jam on one side, butter on the other. When he taps her lightly, she wakes abruptly, flails her arms, knocks over the tray. He is burnt from the tea, his new shirt ruined and stained pink by the jam. She apologizes profusely and watches helplessly as he insists he’s alright, rubbing his eyes with cold water. He is crying. He asks her to leave. She slips out of the room, thinking about how she doesn’t remember how to take care of him.

One morning she sets up his clothes for him, very neatly on his chair in chronological order. Navy tie, blue-grey vest, white collared shirt, white undershirt, dress pants. Under the chair: black socks, dress shoes. When he wakes he takes his shower, exactly six minutes and forty seconds, and dresses himself in front of his dresser. She watches him from bed, pretending to be asleep, and doesn’t have the heart to tell him to turn around, notice the now clothed but usually empty chair.

She notices his briefcase is broken. The right hand corner cracked wide open, his pens are falling out all over the house. She purchases a new, jet-black streamline new one. It has four more pockets, foldeable flaps, leather straps and cell phone pouch. When he tries it out he tells her he loves it and she doesn't recognize the word. Four days later he realizes he cannot fit his laptop in it. He returns to his old briefcase. Even though it's broken, he says, it's better than nothing. She tries to return the new one. Fails.

He's been collecting pictures. Bought a disposeable camera and spent an entire Saturday going around the town, taking pictures of pigeons being scared by children, elderly playing chess, rainbows in water fountains, streelights, cars turning left, bicycle tires. He prints them out on the same day and returns that night, scrapbooks it. He gives it to her for her birthday three days later. She hasn't the heart to tell him her birthday was Saturday, and she'd spent it thinking he'd forgotten.

They take a stroll through the park, pointing at kites, children, water fountains. She sees a flag flying at half mast and starts sobbing for some reason. They sit, on a ridiculously large bench, and he drapes his arm over her shoulder out of habit. She rests her head on his shoulder and talks about how fragile life is, how inconsistent, how out-of-the-blue things can twist and turn out of shape. How things don’t have shapes. He doesn't know what to say. She wishes he would.

They have dinner at their favourite restaurant, where he proposed. He orders her the spaghetti, she wants the salad. He is embarrassed.

“You love Italian,” he protests, when the waiter leaves.

“I used to,” she replies.

The pianist is playing Mancini. “Do you still love Mancini?” he asks.

“I used to,” she replies. They listen for a while, to the chatter of the other patrons, to each pause and strike of the piano keys, to the frenzied strides of the waiters. She is taken in by the piano player. Such finesse, such patience and serenity etched on his face, his concentration is beautiful and heartbreaking.

He watches her as she watches him. Drinks some champagne and sets the glass down loudly.

She looks back at him. “French,” she says, rearranging her seating position. She flips some hair out of her eyes. “French,” she repeats, then gazes at the chandelier above their heads, “And Berlioz.”

One morning he brings her some fresh croissants, orange juice, and sets it down on her night-table before waking her. “It’s not enough,” she says sadly when she finishes it.

“No, it isn't," he finally agrees. Holds her hand.