This Thing Between Us

by Gus Moreno

It was all about being responsible with the body we’d leave behind, like washing our cups and cake plates at the end of a party.

I think it’s satisfying the part of me that always wanted a Trapper Keeper growing up.

“We die and that’s the end. No heaven. No hell. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

What they say: call me. What they mean: it’s your responsibility to let me know when I have to care.

You were you and I was me and there was this thing between us.

“I’m here whether you need me, here whether you see me, and that ain’t bad…” A shadow passed in my peripheral. “I’m here whether you need me, here whether you see me, so don’t be sad…”

There was a Save the Date, your yoga class schedule, a ten-dollars-off coupon for Benny’s, our favorite pizza spot. Right over the water dispenser was the strip of photo booth pictures we took at some work event of yours. Holding it in place in the right-hand corner was a magnet with only two letters: ha. Here you were again. It was like we were having a conversation. I could hear your laugh. Did you mean to do that? How many times had I passed and not noticed? My eyes scanned the fridge for more messages.

I’m supposed to move on, get over it, let go. But it’s like having an arm amputated and complaining that you can still feel the phantom hand balled into a fist, and it hurts, and they all stare at me like monks in their Zen gardens, and say, “You have to let go.” To them, it’s a storm you weather, and if I just keep pushing through, I’ll come out the other side to a brighter day.

The herd of clouds moving over the road took the spotlight off me. In the city, around humans, I was someone. But out here, I was an ant.

“You ever see that movie where the people can run on walls and dodge bullets? And they live in that video game?”

Then maybe I’d take up writing. Out in the middle of nowhere, grizzled, I could be one of those serious writers who used ten different words for grass. I would let my hair grow, write, chop the wood, feed the dogs. The days would fill themselves, really.

Brimley started barking. His body stiffened, eyes focused on something beyond the wall. I shifted to see what it was. Nestled between the trees, on the edge of the forest, was a staircase.