Thanks JZ, CN, and TA for the editorial notes and feedback. You can also catch this on my website.
4:47 a.m.
He crouched at the deck edge, looking down at nothing. His arms were folded, his hands clenched, his fingers curled inward as if to protect what lay beneath the skin. A coyote wailed in the distance on the ridge. The sound faded, retreated, dwindled into silence. He moved to his usual reading chair. His eyes followed the broad hump of the hill beyond the terraced garden. The room behind him stayed in shadow. Only the loose white curtain stirred in the quiet wind as he turned. The sky was still deep indigo black, but its edges had shifted into inky outlines of mountains. A rosy glow seeped into the sky past Topanga. The last ragged night clouds lingered a moment in silhouette. A faint plume of fog uncurled above the ridge, flaring rose-gold, luminous as breath. The hills swam into half-form, breathing with him. Time still belonged to uncertainty, the dissolution of dreams. When the light came fully, it would be time to begin again.
He came back inside, into the hollow house. The first thing he did was breathe deeply through his nose; the scent of stale coffee filled the cold room. Light hush. Stillness stretched on after the abrupt birdsong, after the soft rush of the morning breeze against the wide panes. The living room was in shadow. Only a faint orange glow from the upstairs hallway slanted across the reading nook. He settled on the sofa. Beside him lay the newspaper, fallen to the floor, creased down the middle, open in a shallow dome. His eye fell immediately on the bold headline. The rest of the paper held such exciting news: politics, a possible wildfire, and a new cooking show. Quiet light touched his bare feet and felt warm.
He took a cup of orange juice and an espresso. With a slight clink, he pushed the cup and saucer to one side and carried both to the back steps. He sat with the newspaper, sipped the drinks, and read it aloud. The phone rang once, twice. He did not hear it. Eventually he put the paper down, got up, went to the desk, turned on the computer, and sat stiffly, waiting. He had promised her he would write a letter of appreciation to Miss McGinnis. He must. Words eluded him. He wrote almost nothing. The printed draft spluttered into the digital void. He turned off the monitor and stared at the blinking cursor. His mind wandered, always searching. It found her: a gentle smile at the back of his mind, a whisper of her voice, ready for easy conversation that made them feel companionably at ease. That feeling in his chest whenever kindness or understanding caught her completely unaware.
The filtered hush of early morning stirred feelings of sadness again. He sat for a few minutes, not sure whether it was the landscape or his chest that was grieving.
When he got back to the room, he sat and stared out over the hued ridge, pastel light on wintry tree limbs, and realized that the sorrow he carried was unresolved. So the words evaporated. Kafka wrote to Milena, “Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.” Some minutes later, the phone in his pocket pinged with a muzzy echo. Three tiny bubbles appeared and disappeared on the screen. A message appeared: “I didn’t mean to say any of those things. I know we don’t have anything in common. I meant something else. It’s probably best we don’t see each other any more. But I do care about you. I just can’t give you what I know you’re asking for.” Another click, then another message: “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that I think your presence is getting in the way of the space that I need in order to make the kind of romantic connection that I feel you deserve. It’s very strange and absurd, and I’m not sure I can explain it. All I know is that, at this stage in my life, I like being by myself. I want to think about who I am and how I want to live my life. That way, I can figure out the kind of relationship I need to have, and be with someone who will stay with me in my future. Right now, I can’t imagine being in a relationship that deserves the kind of attention and energy you want it to have. That being said, I don’t want you to think that I don’t value how special you are. I’d much rather see you with someone else that isn’t me.” It was some minutes before he responded. He recalled the thoughts and sentiments of Camus and wondered whether they should have resolved things in some way. She clearly knew him better than he did, and maybe he should have known that what he had to offer could not satisfy what she wanted. But how could he have expected her to answer in kind? There were times when he could not stand being himself. He said that he was sorry he had upset her and asked her whether she wanted him to say anything else. She did the same, and he likewise said he had nothing more to say. He received a further ping: “Coffee next week?” He replied that coffee sounded good and smiled in the way he usually did when he smiled.
[Life moved on, and he thought to himself: “We will be okay.”]