You Won't Find Us Here

“We’ve been in the wind too long,” he says, through gritted teeth. His hair is funny, the way it pokes out from the sides of his head. I would laugh, but there is nothing lyrical left within me. I’ve forfeited pieces of myself for capsules in orange bottles. These I carry, in white-knuckled fists, as a chalky powder dissolves in my bloodstream. He knows, and my explanations (a myriad of excuses) cause him to deflate, teary-eyed. Perhaps I’ve broken him—it seems he’s given up searching for sunshine in dark places.

I imagine a braincase (my braincase) in disarray, permeating with white vibrations, and sense as we pull away from each other, leaves rustling underfoot. Right now, it is as if we are strangers.

“The clouds are getting darker,” he says. “We should probably get going, don’t you think? Or would you rather we stay here?”

We are standing among tombstones carved from gabbro, sculptures of angels resting upon the sleeping dead. There’s a slight buzzing in my ears; I must have blown my cochleas from crying. My cheeks are sticky with tears and my stomach aches; it feels as if it’s been filled with horseflies. My guts are weaving through my organs—any second now, and they’ll be tying knots like shoe laces. I don’t want to spit on his flame; he wants the best for me, and tries so hard. And he’s right, about many things.

Like now. We have been in the wind too long.

“Why do I have to?” The question seems to startle him. He peers at me, inquisitive. His tone softens. Suddenly, we are no longer strangers.

“Margaux, no one is forcing you to—” Now, it clicks. “If you didn’t want to be alive, you wouldn’t have told me where you are.”

“Can’t you just take the pain away?”

“When the world floods, no one is going to build an ark for you.” He sighs, looking both ways, as if he is about to cross a deadly street. “I don’t know how to say this. (pause) Margaux, what I mean is this: sometimes, you have to be the one to pick yourself up. Be there for you. I won’t always be here to give you the consolation you need. So when the world floods, if you have the means to, save yourself.” He laughs. “Boy, that sounds a bit selfish, doesn’t it?”

“In the case of mental health, maybe it isn’t.”

“Maybe it isn’t, Margaux. Maybe it isn’t.”

“What were you doing when I called?”

He sticks his gloved hands into the pockets of his trench. He’s clenching something in his left hand, possibly a carton of cigarettes. Pall Mall. He likes those, and they’re cheap.

“Cleaning.”

“Ah. (pause) Again?”

“Yes.”

For him, every day is spring.

***

His name is Michael. I met him two months ago while perusing the shelves at Hilaire’s, an antique watch shop that smells oddly of varnish and cumin. A note, penned by myself, was tucked into my coat pocket, folded unevenly into quarters. No one here knew what I was thinking, and that was perfect. The wall of clocks seemed to be in on the secret, too. They ticked for me, counting down the minutes.

The countdown was interrupted, though, by smoke. It wafted through my nostrils and swirled around my head like an ill-contained spirit. When I turned, my eyes fell upon the culprit. A cigarette was wedged between his lips, and he kept his own eyes forward, acknowledging the assortment of timepieces.

“Victorian era clocks always ignite some sort of aristocrat in me,” He mused.

“You know, you shouldn’t be smoking in here,” I lowered my voice, careful not to draw any attention. “You could get kicked out.”

“Eh, life is all about making screwball decisions.” He paused, finally meeting my gaze. “Between you and I, these smoke detectors went out about a week ago.”

“Still, I don’t think you should be smoking.”

“The Persistence of Memory! (pause) I do enjoy that painting. Dalí, wasn’t it? Ah, I love time. Unfortunately, there are people who love to rush the process. My name is Michael.”

“I’m Margaux. Margaux Auclair.”

I didn’t kill myself that day. Instead, he showed me a world outside the city limits. He drives an old ‘75 Buick Apollo. The car smells of Chinatown—sesame oil & pork—though I don’t believe he’s ever been. There’s also a hint of something else...other things I can’t decipher. We’ve been doing this for a while now, of course. At night, he’ll ring to see if I’m awake, and if I am, he’ll take me miles out of Marseille.

He never talks on these trips.

A couple of times, he’s taken me to his house, where we both stared at the false fecundity of plastic hyacinths and chrysanthemums. Michael talked highly about them, expressing his desire to keep flowers without having to nourish them periodically. He’s a self-proclaimed pseudo-florist; I like that. The black trench he favors, paired with steel-toed leather boots, makes him look like a goth survivalist, or death, if it were human. It’s a fascinating thing to see, this man tending to plastic petals, standing among vases filled with a mixture of adhesive and mulch.

“I like those,” I had said.

“Thanks, they were at the dollar store.”

The dollar store. Everything Michael favors is there, from china plates printed with red Chinese dragons and cherry blossoms, to off-brand bottles of Pine-Sol and spice scented candle wax. I like him—I like him a lot.

***

“I’ve taken to dusting the observatory more often than usual. It helps keep my mind off of things. I can relax that way.”

“Seems you’d make a lovely woman someday,” I reply.

He chuckles. “Isn’t it funny, how being tidy is synonymous to being a woman? Now, on the other hand, I’ve dated some women who would make lovely varsity boys.” He pulls a box from his pocket (Pall Malls) and flicks open the top. The cigarettes grin at him, like a line of un-polished dentures.

He smokes, while I read epitaphs.

I close my eyes and lean against the wind, as if a syringe has embraced a pocket in my vein. I could disappear, right here. (yes, I really could.) But the ground facilitates nothing. Nothing for me, nothing of use. Not a pull, not an irreversible sludge of mud or grappling of hands. Nothing.

When my eyes open, he’s even closer, exhaling breaths of cirrus clouds. His eyes are trained on the headstone before me, head tilted.

“You know,” he begins, pointing a gloved finger, “I think I remember this story.”

“What story?”

“The story of this grave, Colette Wagner.”

“What about her? Was she a friend of someone you know?”

“No. I have very few friends. I find myself reading obituaries. It’s an ugly pastime.”

“Why do you do it?”

“I don’t believe I know the “why” of anything anymore,” He says, and the sentiment strikes me, like a drum. I plaster my mouth shut, suddenly quiet.

“Colette was in a car accident. It put her in a tiny coma, only, no one knew. The poor thing woke up during her own autopsy. She was so stricken with terror, she took the coroner’s knife to her own throat. It was the deepest laceration you’ll ever see, like a crevice in the earth, drawn neatly through her flesh. Shortly thereafter, her mother, Jacquelyn, consumed a mixture of green tea and peroxide.”

“Did she die?”

“No, but she succeeded in killing her spirit. She’s hardly alive. (pause) Isn’t it upsetting, Margaux, how death will find a way to disrupt the living?”

I think of Colette, how she must have looked. I walk through the scene as if I am God, with Michael beside me. We’re staring down at the body of this girl, staring at her exposed organs. Then, her eyes peel open. She’s looking at us, screaming.

“How do you know so much?”

“I’ve already told you: obituaries.”

“They don’t have that much information, I don’t think.”

He shrugs, lighting another cigarette. There’s something about him now that’s chilling, albeit intriguing. Although, I can’t put my finger on it.

“Tell me more, Michael.” I roll a rock under my insteps. “I’m interested, now.”

“There’s nothing else left to tell.”

“Come on, I’m sure you’ve got something.”

“Non, je ne. Sorry to disappoint.”

I twist my face, unsatisfied. “So, why tell me about Colette?”

“Death is gruesome, Margaux, no matter which way you spin it. It’s nothing anyone should be eager about.”

“I’m not eager about it. I’m just—”

“Guilty.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Considering I lack the ability to sustain even the life of a flower, I’d say no. It’s not something I am eager about. I’m faced with it everyday.”

“Flowers are different,”

“Are they, Margaux? Perhaps you should think about that sentiment.” He snuffs his cigarette on a tombstone, then neatly positions it between the fingers of a marble angel. He chuckles at his own humor. “I know you’re sad, Margaux. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I am familiar with that sort of feeling, you know. It’s like fibrous muscle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Adhesion. In the muscle. Think of a big ouch, an excruciating pain.”

“I know what fibrous muscle is; I was asking what you meant by it, but now I know. (pause) Why are you forcing that poor cherub to smoke?” I remove the cigarette from the angel’s fingers. “It can’t afford bad lungs.”

Michael laughs. “And why not, Margaux?”

“Because, an angel must sing.”

We stare off into the distance together, holding hands once Michael has pulled his gloves a bit tighter.

In the morning, you won’t find us here.

At least, not for a very long time. No, by noon, we’ll have danced to the tunes of Jacques Di Donato and François Mechali. We’ll be tending to plastic hyacinths and chrysanthemums, discussing the likes of Marquis de Sade.

You won’t find us here, because by nightfall, we’ll be miles from Marseille. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be sitting upon his couch, sniffing cigarette smoke, while we watch documentaries and old cartoons. We’ll discuss death, and the way certain flowers bloom.

And the irony will not be lost on me.

FINIS