The Safekeep

by Yael van der Wouden

There you are, said the dim light in the kitchen, left on for comfort. I’ve waited up for you, said the rattle of key in the door.

Isabel had never known loneliness like that, one that arrived without the promise of leaving.

Then said, “Does nothing bring you joy, Isabel?”

She thought that might have been joy, or something like it. Something that feels sad as much as it feels like love.

It was foul and I loved it. I loved my own undoing.

The terror was as wide as the want: a boulder moved from the gaping mouth of a cave.

Shame rose up like tar—slow, thick.

She said, quiet, “Who are you?” She said, “Have you always been like this? Have you just been waiting to happen?”

She had held a pear in her hand and she had eaten it skin and all. She had eaten the stem and she had eaten its seeds and she had eaten its core, and the hunger still sat in her like an open maw. She thought: I can hold you and find that I still miss your body. She thought: I can listen to you speak and still miss the sound of your voice.

She felt he must. She felt she was not who she once was. She felt that this should be visible from a great distance.