by Benjamin Murray

“Isn’t it nice, watching a car come and go in each window. It’s like validation of our entire existence.” 

“What’s that now?”

She continued, “There’s the car,” pointing at a red car traveling slowly, left to right, headlights on, snow pouring down, “and there’s it again.”

He crossed his legs in the chair. “Yes, I see it.”

The kettle on the stove slowly churned steam, though they didn’t see it in the shadows of the living room. A few bottles of wine rested on the windowsill, so that when another car passed, it looked like a miniature city skyline. It was January, and the world grappled with snow and cold and ice and disease, or so it seemed. To him, the snow only hid and glorified the landscape. He pretended when he had arrived at the building by foot, for her place was much closer than he realized, that he was transported to another place entirely. Another time period entirely, when his parents and her parents would get together before Christmas to drink around a clear glass bowl of red punch. Later, his parents would tell him that it was spiked, and he had to feign surprise, clutch his chest and grip his shirt in the astonishment of the news. He had drunk many glasses of spiked juice, usually in his room with her and her sisters. 

“No, you don’t.” She pointed again to the window. The flakes fell, engorged, clumping together. Another car inched down the road. “Look, headlights.”

There were ashtrays filled with half-smoked joints and cigarettes on the table, packs of matches between couch cushions, and under her kitchen table to steady it, when he had set down the bag of groceries. A frozen pizza rose above the handles, showing a sliver of the cheese and pepperoni, the thin crust edging. A pool of water circled the bag, but he didn’t care to move it. With her in her chair, and him in his, the bag seemed so far away. “Headlights. Yes, I see them. Did you see that firetruck that passed just before I got here? It looked like it was heading toward the bridge.”

At one point she had a cat. The litter box in the corner, now supporting a tower of cardboard boxes, the last box’s flaps tickling the ceiling, bright red print saying “fragile.” 

 “Get me a drink, will ya?” When she had answered the door, she had simply backed away, nodding into her chair. It was as if they hadn’t seen each other in a couple hours, not years, ever since his and her parents had a falling out over who won the mayoral race, or so they said. He got up and crossed the living room into the kitchen. Another car passed, the headlights illuminating his figure against the back wall next to her TV stood open-faced, like a blackhole. Peeling movie posters from the 40’s and 50’s clung ever less secure, corners free, tape coated with dust. He patted his stomach. There had been too many beers, perhaps, between now and the last time he had seen her. 

“There’s rum in the door,” she said. “Do you think it’ll snow all night?”

He took the bottle, searched for any mixers, and when he couldn’t find any, brought the bottle over and set it down on the small table between them. This was how the room was when he got here. Two chairs facing the windows. “No, I heard it’s supposed to stop around midnight or so."

She took the bottle and with practiced movement, unscrewed it, drank, and returned it to the table. “Thanks,” she said. She played with the cap in her hands, the anchor on the cap reflecting the dim lights from the streetlamps outside, the only constant, lonely light in the room. 

“I know why you’re here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mom’s worried about me.” She tossed the cap at the window where it bounced off and rolled on the floor behind them. “Dad is probably worried too, though he’d never show it.” She took another drink. “Look, see?” She nodded to a man across the street walking, hood down against the snow and the wind and the disease. Their legs were caked with dirt or mud, their feet barely lifting off the ground, so that two long lines of cleared snow followed them. “I wonder if that’s Jess. She’d walk like that sometimes.”

Jess. He hadn’t heard that name since they had stopped hanging out. “Is she still banking? Wasn’t she a bank manager over in Portland?”

She took another drink. He pulled the bottle to himself, thought about wiping off the mouth with his sleeve, but then it was alcohol, and hadn’t they always shared drinks, food in the past? Was three years long enough to change someone? He took two swigs. It burned. When was the last time he drank?

“Why are you here?” She stretched her legs out, her skin pale, her middle toe still slightly bent from when she had kicked a corner of her parent’s couch. He’d never heard her scream until then.

He was here because his mom wanted him to check in on her, that his dad agreed, that there had been rumors of her going around town that she was having problems, issues, challenges, collapsing. She looked depressed, his dad said. His mom said, she’s been seen at the gas station going through garbage. I heard, his dad said, that she had dropped out of college for some guy and then that had gone south. All this was said on his parent’s porch, freezing, a storm front on the horizon. You two used to be so close, his mom said. Maybe you can do something.

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said after another drink, “I’d probably be at your place if it was switched. It’s true, some of it, the rumors out there.” She pointed out the window. The sky was a persistent grey. “Yeah, college wasn’t for me, that’s for sure. But not everyone has to go to fucking college, ya know? Let’s be honest, I don’t think anyone should be surprised by that. In fact, just tell me, what is it out there, those rumors?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know much, actually. It’s not like I like to be in on gossip. I don’t usually, say, dabble in it.”

“So,” she said. 

“So, that’s so. I just wanted to come by because it has been so long.”

The heat kicked on. A stack of papers near a vent by the corner rattled. 

“You’ve come to diagnose me, haven’t you? You say ‘hmm, here’s this nice young woman who I used to know and use to get along with so well, our families were constantly engaged with each other in some manner, and here I am a well put together adult with his life on track, and here she is, gone the way down, beaten by the world, in some manner, yes.’” She sat up her chair and hugged her knees. “I don’t need your pity.”

 “No, no, no. You got it wrong,” grabbing the bottle, his hands tight around its throat. 

“So, tell me. These rumors.”

“You really want me to tell you? I don’t know much, like I said.”

She stared out the window. With the snowing coming down so fast and heavy, it appeared as if they were accelerating toward the sky, the grey roof.

“Okay,” he said, returning the bottle to the table. “Okay, if you must know. If you must know some people—”

“Your parents or mine?”

“Some people say that you’ve been seen going through dumpsters. Some people say that you steal from the store to eat. But those are absurd accusations.” He couldn’t help it, “Right?”

“What else? Is that all? I’m surprised you haven’t heard more.” She fumbled behind her chair brought up a joint and lit it. “You haven’t heard, then, about my many night visitors? What about the hundreds of cats choking up my apartment? And what about my apartment, my place, my unit? It’s a hellhole from what I’ve heard, isn’t the right? No, you know more, I think.” She passed him the joint. “Let me tell you. Let me tell you what has happened. How it has happened all this time. When was the last time we saw each other? When was that?” She took the joint back from him. “I think it was three years ago, maybe four? I can’t remember. I can only remember it was outside. Must’ve been your parents, with their big yard. It must’ve been around then. Yeah, and then it all started to slide.” She moved her hand down. 

He crossed his feet. He remembered that party, a birthday party for his dad. But that wasn’t the last time. At a stoplight last year, he’d seen her waiting to cross, her hands in her pockets of her jeans. A backpack hung from her back, and by the way she leaned forward, it seemed heavy with books. That was all he could get before the traffic moved on and him with it. 

“That’s the thing, isn’t? When shit starts sliding you know who really cares.” The joint finished on the table between them. “Oh, another.” 

A pair of headlights stretched across the face of the building in front of them. The glass glinted and sparkled. 

She put her head back. He couldn’t tell if she had closed her eyes. “Let me say this, I won’t ask where you’ve been, and you don’t ask me. Do you get me? I don’t want to hash things out, ya know? But I know you want to know. I could see the moment you got here. The moment you got here you pretended to care, to care enough for me to trust. But tell me one thing, one truth from you, right now. Did you ever love me?”

He was beginning to lose the reason as to why he was here. He was here to help. He was here to facilitate something. It alluded him in this room, with the snow coming down, with the smoke curling and dying on the ceiling above them. 

“Did you ever love me enough to care? I don’t think so. Well, I’m not shocked. I guess I’m a little shocked, though, since we were so such good friends. Such good friends for so long. We could play the remember when game all night, couldn’t we? But no, you just want to fix me, figure me out, report back to your parents that I’ll be okay. What are they afraid of? That’s a question. I’ll tell you what they are scared of. They are scared of you becoming a failure like me, or worse, that somehow, I’ll drag you down to my level. Whatever, that’s what it is. I dropped out of college. I lost my internship. I couldn’t get a job. Time passes. Time passes, doesn’t it? It never fucking stops. It never fucking stops going and going,” her hand pointing out the window. It looked the same. 

“I don’t think that’s the case.” 

“I’m not a victim. If I’m a victim, I’m a victim in the sense that I was a victim of the system, these systems we have in place. In a way, I’m exactly where I belong. Charles left a couple weeks ago that’s the reason for my mood. It’s the reason for this,” lifting her arms over her head. 

“Who was Charles?” he said. 

“My cat.”

“I’m sure he’ll come back. Did you check the places? The shelters?”

She dropped her arms. “I’m not incompetent. He’s gone. He’s gone. Stolen. Killed. He’s gone. And I just have to make do.”

His eyes were getting tired; it hurt to look outside. 

“I’m tired of the harassment. That’s my problem now. Charles and the harassment. The fucking harassment. I fucking hate this place. No, not the place, the people. Some of the people here.” She sat up again, crossed her legs, gripped the edge of the chair with both hands. “They keep throwing rocks at my door at night. I’m sure you saw, maybe you didn’t, my door is all banged up. They do that from time to time, to rattle me. They do these things to me. It’s probably good they stole my car. It’s probably good, because last time they tried to beat me in my car.”

The windowpanes seemed to let in less and less light. He couldn’t tell if they were frosting over, if his eyers were going. His hands, his pants, the floor strewn with rolling papers and paper plates lost definition. The corners were softening to delicate spheres. 

“They encircle me, ya know, all of them, chanted my name at me to intimidate. Thank fuck Molly was there too. She stood up for me. You’ll like her, she keeps bees on the roof. Or she’s trying to. And the laundry. They fuck with my laundry. They keep putting bleach in my loads. And you can only complain so much. You can only do so much.” She was back down in her chair, her head resting on the arm, her legs dangling inches from the floor. “I can’t believe my life. I can’t believe I’m here.”

He shifted in his chair. He tried focusing on his right knee, and then exploring the rest of his body by flexing the muscles there by looking at them. 

“I can’t remember when I fell asleep in my bed. They won’t get away with what they’ve done. The sheets, I need new sheets. Then I can sleep. Then I can sleep in my bed and rest. Rest and let Charles go. The sky is grey. Look, the sky. It’s a lid on us. We are in the pot, ya know? We are cooking. I can feel it in my arms. I’m peeling from the bones.”

The heat kicked off. The papers rattling quit. He turned his gaze outside. The snow had stopped. Pockets of white clung to the bottom of the window.

They sat, listening to the apartment creak in the cold, the disease of this winter. He couldn’t tell if she had fallen asleep. All he knew was that she was still. He pictured the walk back. The fresh prints he could make. He’ll call his parents tomorrow. Tomorrow should be better, for the weather at least. He tried standing, but the chair seemed to engulf him, and he could not move.