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- The doorbell trills. I can’t deal with visitors right now, not when I’m in this state, but the ringing doesn't stop. Whoever it is, I can’t let them know that I’ve been crying.
- “Mike,” I say.
- “I know it’s late. You alright?”
- "I was just about to go to bed.”
- “You look like shit." He rubs his arms and tries to peer inside the room. "It’s damn cold out here," he says.
- I sigh. “Come in if you like, but I don’t think I’ll be very good company right now.”
- He steps through the doorway and takes off his coat. “I can do most of the talking.”
- I sit down on the couch, but Mike stays standing and looks around the room.
- “Tea or coffee?” I ask, not moving from the couch.
- He stares at me for a moment, like he's trying to recognize me in a crowd. “I’m really sorry about what happened, Steve.”
- I stare at a stain on the carpet. Was it there before or after? I struggle to remember, but I know haven't cleaned in weeks. “Yeah,” I say.
- “That’s why I’m here. Everybody's worried about you. You haven’t been showing up to work, no one's seen you for almost a month now.”
- “I'm alright. I'm fine.”
- “This is all Hannah's stuff right?" He picked up a photograph of her and me, at the beach, her riding on my back. If I focus hard enough, I can almost feel her breath on my neck. "...and I bet if I went into the bathroom I could find her toothbrush. Look, I don’t want to sound like an asshole and I know you're grieving and everything but you're my best friend since the third grade--”
- “Second grade."
- “Whatever,” Mike says. “You're my best friend and I gotta tell you, this isn't healthy.”
- I look Mike dead in the eyes. I don't say a word.
- “Alright,” Mike says. “I get it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
- It’s late. I want to go to bed. I need to go to bed. If I’m asleep, then I’m not thinking about her.
- ***
- Knocking again. Mike? No, it’s three o’clock in the morning. I kick off the covers. A burglar? What kind of burglar knocks? On the other hand what kind of prick comes knocking at three in the morning?
- “Who is it?” I say. “Do you know what time it is?”
- There’s no response.
- "I'm going back to bed."
- Then I smell it. Hannah’s perfume. I sniff it all the way to the bathroom. It's quiet. The radiator rattles like someone is hammering it from the inside. I trip and almost fall into the tub.
- “Steve? I'm home, where are you?”
- "Hannah?" I whip around. I run out of the bathroom and into the living room. "Hannah?" It's her. It is Hannah. It must be, but she’s so pale, almost see-through.
- “There you are,” she says, smiling. "Had an awful day at work today. Feels like the drive home took weeks. I missed you.”
- I wanted to touch her. I wanted to feel her breathing again, to feel her pulse beat against my own. But I look down and see that she has no feet.
- “What’s with you? You look sick," she says.
- “You’re not supposed to be here.”
- “What?" She giggles, and seeing that I don't laugh with her, she says, "That’s not funny Steve, what the hell.”
- “Drunk driver, I--he hit you, you don't remember?”
- “What?”
- “Look down,” I say, nodding my head. “Look down.”
- “Down?” she says, looking down at her hands. "What am I looking for?"
- “No, Hannah," I swallow. I don't want her to go. "No, never mind." I step forward, but she holds her hand up, her head bowed in thought. "No," I say. "It's OK."
- “I was driving," she says. "It was raining.”
- "It's OK baby.”
- She pauses for a moment trying to find the words. But there's nothing to say. I put my hands around her and they just pass through. I'm crying now, my chest is heaving, and the tears are rolling fast and hot, but there's no sound.
- She looks at me, at the room, and she laughs.
- “You're not doing too well without me, huh?” she says.
- “Don't go,” I say. "Please."
- She sighs. “I think I know why I'm here.” She sits down on the couch and pats the cushion beside her. I sit down.
- “I'm trying, Hannah, I really am. But I don't know how much longer--”
- "It'll pass," she says, stroking my hair. I shake my head. "It's not so bad, you know. There's no more pain. And there's no more grief because there isn't really such a thing as separation. But I'm tired Steve, I need to rest. I can't rest if you keep doing this. No more sleeping pills. No more punishing yourself. Don't make me worry about you."
- "Let come with you."
- "It doesn't work that way. It isn't time yet for that." She takes my head in her hands. "Right?" she says, very softly. "Promise me."
- I try and shake my head, I don't want to make this promise, but she holds it firm. She lays her forehead against mine and then kisses me, enveloping me with her smell. I wake up with it still in my breath. I get up, I flush the pills. I call my friend Mike and ask for help and he says he was waiting for my call and that it's all going to be fine from now on. But the relief is only momentary and I remain a prisoner of my memories, going on in the hopes of a reunion that may never come.
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