Story

Lucinda blinks as the edge of a heavy shadow eclipses her. High above, a fast-moving cloud fills the late afternoon sky. She shifts closer to her husband and pulls the blanket at her feet up to her knees as the porch swing sways. “Do you ever think about the sun?”

Faron brings his attention to Lucinda’s hand on his bare chest. “What about it.”

“If it stopped shining. Just disappeared. Do you know what will happen?”

Faron squints. “Off the top of my head? It would be dark.”

Lucinda closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip. Faron waits for confirmation of his assumption. When it becomes clear his wife won’t continue without him showing more interest, he sighs and asks the expected question slow and without emotion. “How much worse?”

Lucinda leans into Faron’s shoulder and turns her eyes up to his. “Outside of the changes in gravity, all human life would end within the first two days. We’d all freeze to death. After two months, the oceans will freeze over. After the atmosphere collapses, the planet will be a radioactive wasteland careening through space forever, or at least until it hits something of similar or greater size and is destroyed.”

Faron forces a hint of a smile. “Fun.”

Lucinda frowns from one side of her mouth. “Yeah.” She studies Faron’s face a moment longer before finding it hard to maintain her focus. “It’s been on my mind lately. It seems the perfect metaphor for loss. When your light goes away, it takes what was holding your feet to the ground. You become cold. Lifeless. You wander without direction until one day it all ends for good.”

Faron rests his hand on the back of Lucinda’s head, smoothing her coal-black curls. “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

Lucinda guides the tips of her fingers down the raised skin on the center of Faron’s chest, healed, but discoloured. “Not yet.”

Faron opens his mouth, but the response disappears before forming enough to be spoken. Instead, he kisses her forehead and turns away.

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Photo by Jordon Conner on Unsplash

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I took the phone off the hook. Not that anyone knows where we are. Past the flickering neon vacancy sign, the stars begin to fade with the light of a new day. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise. Part of me hopes it won’t ever happen again.

When we met, love came faster than I knew it could. By the time I heard the first pull of the whistle, that train was already on top of me. All we had was each other, didn’t need anything else. I had her name tattooed next to mine on the inside of my arm like it was scratched into an old tree. Together forever. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Yesterday, she told me she doesn’t love me anymore. I know it’s to make leaving easier, but it hurt more than anything. I begged her to stab me right in the heart and put me out of my misery.

“No,” she said. “I can’t do it to you any more than you could to me.”

I laid next to her all night, as close as she’d let me, hoping it’s all been a bad dream. Now, she’s sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the door, holding herself the way I want to hold her. I have the urge to reach out, but she’s already too far away. There’s nothing else to do, so I ask her one last time. Why does she have to go?

“You know why,” she says. She raises a hand, maybe to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Instead, the tips of her fingers rest on her temple. When her hand starts to shake, she pulls it away. “My memory… it’s getting worse.”

It’s part of the reason we left, why we’re running from our families and the place we grew up. I ask again about our plans. New Orleans in the fall. Valentine’s Day in the desert. California by spring, where the ocean’s as blue as her eyes.

She lowers her head. “By Valentine’s Day, I won’t even remember your name.”

Everything is broken. This whole time, our plan seemed so simple that I forgot about the cost, or maybe I can’t bring myself to admit that it’s true.

She stands and faces away from me with her hands in her pockets. “I have to be on my way.”

I tell her I wish I could change things and make it so she could stay. She grabs the handle of the battered old suitcase on her way to the door. Before heading out, she stops and glances over her shoulder. “If only wishing for it made it real,” she says, then walks out into the cold morning air.

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Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

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