Page 79 of Grim
There is a moment of silence that stretches. Big D simply stops talking. His eyes take on a vacant stare.
Finally, his attention returns to the present. “Oh, you’re still here. You’re free to go.”
I turn to leave.
“Wait. No, there was something else I needed to discuss with you. Shit, it was very important.”
I turn back to face him.
He snaps his fingers, and I can almost see the light bulb above his head going off.
“That’s right! Big D’s Devilishly Deviant Dress-Up Dance is in two days. I haven’t received your RSVP yet.”
“That’s a lot of Ds.”
“That’s what the nymph said at her first orgy.” He laughs heartily at his awful joke.
I cut off his wailing. “Why don’t you just call it a masquerade ball?”
Big D’s face turns extremely serious. “Because I love alliterations, Kane.”
“Same,” I concede.
“Everyone does. Almost as much as the nymph loved her first orgy.”
“Okay, D. I will be there. Consider this my RSVP.”
“Good, because attendance is mandatory.”
“Then why did you need my RS—you know what? Never mind. Thanks for the chat, boss. See you in a couple days.”
“Not if I see you first.” He giggles again. “Seriously though Kane, do not do anything to further upset the Sisters. Your attendance at that catastrophe was no mistake. And if you misstep, overstep, or even Texas two-step with this Rue person any further, I do not want to know what tortures those two might have in store for you.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the heads-up.”
I turn to leave, but just before I reach my hand out to open the door, Big D’s voice carries down the length of this humid room and stops me in my tracks.
“Oh, and Kane, in light of your recentsituation”—he emphasizes the last word to great euphemistic effect—“I will go ahead and put you down for a plus-one. Since it’s so hard to find a sitter on such short notice.” His laugh follows me down the corridor.
Storm.Coming.
Itrail my fingers across the spines of the books lining my home’s built-in bookshelves, the whisper of leather and paper grounding me in a way my body no longer can. Two tall columns flank the doorway, the top shelf stretching across like a crown above the entry. Sometimes, I take as much solace in the spines as I do the stories contained therein. I don’t just love reading books; I love looking at them, almost as if the titles etched down the sides contain the full knowledge of the pages bound within. It’s as though I can absorb the full dramatic weight and entirety of the exploration of the human condition within each of these books simply by reading the title. Even the books I have yet to read fill me with a power and a wonder by the mere fact of their existence. There’s something sacred about unread books. The promise of them, the reminder that there is always another story out there, waiting to be shared.
And I need that comfort right now. My mind races, and I feel myself beginning to spiral again. The thoughts begin to hit, subtle as a pinprick and just as sharp. My heart stutters. A dull, familiar ache flares beneath my ribs, a reminder that I’m a ticking clock, wound too tight and worn too long.
What about my story? Mere days remain, and I feel the staggering weight of that knowledge pressing downso relentlessly that it steals my breath. Death is a certainty. Fate comes for us all. But thewhenremains a mystery so we can live free in our moments without fear or foreboding. Kane might have saved me, but he doomed me in the same breath. Gave me back time in such an exacting way that it makes enjoying the seconds of it nearly unthinkable.
“Nearly,” I repeat to myself, voicing the weak affirmation out loud.
I don’t remember walking, but I’ve somehow drifted to my couch like I’m already a ghost in my home. My body moves without command now, like it’s trying to conserve what little energy I have left for the things that matter.
I crack open the spine of my leather-bound notebook, my private collection of musings and poems, opening to a fresh page. Is there anything as daunting as staring at a blank page? Death perhaps.
Only one thing for it: time for me to make the most of all the words that come beforeThe End.
I grab my pen and begin to furiously scribble out a new sonnet. Measured rhymes and structured meter give a shape to my imaginings and form to my dreams. The stressed/unstressed rhythm of the syllables of each line celebrates the constancy of a beating heart. The imagery and metaphor celebrate the truths found all around us.
The words pour forth, surrounded by a sea of asides, crossed-out attempts at brilliance, and naked stabs at saying something worth saying. The stanzas begin to take shape on the page as a slowly lumbering Esther makes her way toward the couch. I pause to watch her eye the distance from the floor to the couch, steel her constitution, and make the graceful, if labored, effort in a split second. Her back curls as she preens in satisfaction at having made her mark, even with all her mass. She promptly walks from the cushion to my lap, tickles my thighs with her protracted nails, curls up, and lies down. Within seconds, she is asleep.
