Paris and Yvette woke one inauspicious morning. The covers were crumpled, crushed, and smashed against the wall. The distance between the two chasmic, despite the subtle lie of his hand upon her shoulder. The imperceptible rift between them grew with each step as they arose. Paris shuffled towards the bathroom, and Yvette the kitchen.
The toast slowly darkened between hot coils, and eggs simmered upon teflon-coated, obsidian, cookware, as Paris and Yvette traded places. Paris shifted the eggs, and rescued the toast from becoming a carbon torched disaster. Yvette performed her morning routine with exacting precision. The routine was familiar, and comforting. The strange adjustment in the feel of the air though, went unnoticed.
Each slow motion, each brief pause, every awkward “pardon me,” should have been an alert, or at least a cause to discuss something deeper. But each continued to move and touch and flow as if the churning, roaring depths wouldn’t eventually press and break the surface.
With mutual obliviousness, or deliberately ignored struggle, and disappointment, the two passed their threshold, and pressed on to their days.
Each pursued their assumed-to-be temporary, supposedly life-supporting, distraction. Each longed to feel that they were doing their part. Each dreamed that they believed in their contribution. Each wished that their senses told them more than what they felt. Though, as solace, each knew, they could find a center, together, when they returned home.
But the end of this day, was not meant for rest, reconciliation, and rejuvenation. It was not meant for reconnecting, and renewing. It was not meant for hope.
Paris arrived, and stood rigid, eyes wide and mouth agape, in disbelief of what he saw before him. He couldn’t will himself to move, he was rooted to the ground with paralysis, crippled to his nerves. His shelter, his refuge, his consistent balance, lay in shambles. Beams, eaves, and dreams were strewn in chaotic fashion. The roof, windows, and walls lay in a ghastly, lamentable, rubble.
Paris stretched out his hand, and tested the heat of the wreckage, found it tolerable for exploration, and began to search through the shambles. Yvette stealthily emerged from an occluded shed nearby, tucked a matchbook in her pocket, and joined Paris.
She found his hand, and together, they explored the rubble. Each located pieces, keepsakes, and heirlooms, and claimed them as their own. They shifted each remaining beam, moved each broken support, and kicked aside debris to search for valuables. As if conducting an autopsy, each dissected the remains. The shuffled through the charred, skeletal remnants, searching for anything salvageable.
“Do you want to try to rebuild this?” Paris says.
“It’s already destroyed.” says Yvette.
“I still want to try.” Paris wills.
“It’s already broken, and there were too many faltering supports.” Yvette states.
“Such is the case when mending and repairing an old house.”
“There are too many broken memories in the rubble, I can’t even bring myself to try.”
“I found a few treasures that may make this salvageable”
“I have a new house I can move into, It’s time to abandon this husk of a home.”
Paris and Yvette stood in midst of rubble; Paris shocked, unaware, and oblivious, Yvette quietly, calmly waiting beside him.
No one moved. No one walked beyond the rubble. Each stared at the wishes, hopes, and longings, that lie ashen in each others hand.
Eventually, one walked away.
Humbly yours,
J
