here for you
Eddie is supposed to be writing a book.
That’s why he rented this house in the middle of nowhere, to write his book. His editor emails him every few days, asking for updates. Eddie ignores most of these messages.
It’s not that he doesn’t want this book. He wants it, and it’s there. It’s the grasping that’s difficult, the wringing. His book is in the sky, and he’s on the ground, trying to knock it off a cloud.
Hi Eddie,
I just wanted to make sure you got my last email…
His editor is a thin, dark-haired man, with long fingers and a habit of licking the corner of his mouth. He has a sort of rabidity, as though physically hungry for work, for genius. He’s always talking about genius, as though it is a tumor to be removed from the body. Eddie isn’t so sure he has what his editor is looking for.
At first, when he wasn’t napping or sitting blankly in front of a notepad, Eddie took walks. Endless, looping, aimless tramps, sometimes to the convenience store, other times to nowhere in particular. He would stop to sketch trees. Catch frogs. Complain to himself. That got old, after a while, so Eddie doesn’t walk anymore. He feels less lonely, inside the house.
Because of it.
Who Eddie is imagining.
It’s in his room, tonight. Breathing on his face. Staring into the darkness above his bed, the ultimate black, it feels inches away. If he reached out, would it be there? Would he touch the contours of its head, its body?
He’s been calling it “it.”
Eddie can’t bring himself to turn over, or move. He’s paralyzed by…what? Not fear. Apprehension. It’s the not knowing, if there is something, or just nothing. He wants to call Anne, for the thousandth time that day. But it’s not her job to soothe his neuroses anymore. She’s far away, and doesn’t care, and will probably never care about him again. And he deserves it. That’s the immovable truth, he knows he deserves it, because he’s the one who fucked up.
When he wakes up, he instinctively grabs for the other side of the bed. He moved the second pillow to a different room weeks ago, but he still seeks the curve of her hip, still waits to be surprised by warm skin. Which is pathetic. Lying in bed, fingers full of nothing, Eddie is crashingly reintroduced to the fact of his total isolation.
Birds chitter in the distance. It must be early, because the sky isn’t fully bright. Good. Eddie needs a
productive day.
He goes down into the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker. The dishtowel he left on the table last night has been neatly folded and hung on the oven handle. Not a surprise. Eddie ignores it. Mulls over what he’ll write about.
Gives up. Thinks about Anne.
Mostly, he thinks about her body, the presence and fullness of it, from the clear skin on her forearm to the divot in her back. He thinks about her quick smile, and half-serious frown. Eddie gets up and pours his coffee, one cup, for himself. Where is Anne right now? Taking a smoke break behind her very important, very prestigious job? Ordering her own coffee at a cafe? Fucking Dan?
So many titillating possibilities.
Eddie’s eye catches on the folded dishtowel.
Well, someone is looking out for him.
Not that he needs it.
He feels an odd gratitude If he really is going crazy, which is entirely possible, at least his crazy has manifested itself in the form of a benevolent spirit. Eddie gives himself credit for his own sub-conscious.
Throughout the day, he is marginally productive. Another email comes in from his editor, this one slightly more frantic than the last. Condescending concern bleeds through his computer screen: Hi from San Fran! No rush, but we’re just a little worried about your progress…Eddie shoots his editor a few old pages, stuff he’s already decided shouldn’t be in the final draft. That should unruffle feathers, for the time being.
Surprisingly, he makes headway later in the day. It’s almost a complete chapter, with a beginning, middle, and end. Like in a real book. He rewards himself by stopping early and taking a walk, which he hasn’t done in a while.
The surrounding woods are deep and green, unlike the pastel-and-iron of San Francisco. Eddie trips over a log, contemplating the life he left behind. The split-second decision to look in Anne’s files, probe her job, her career. And she left him. Rightfully so.
The files incident had only brought to the surface every other crack in their relationship. All the late nights Eddie came home, stumbling drunk, or Anne’s occasional coldness. She had never forgiven him, Eddie realizes, looking up at the milken sky. She was going places, with the force and velocity of a rocket, and he had always held her down. For the first time, he is aware that she had condescended to love him. Not the other way around. And she had been angry at him for this. Eddie had not tried hard enough to compensate for her slowing down for him.
By the time Eddie finishes his circuitous route down to the creek and back to the house, it is nighttime. It is perhaps this precise time when Eddie feels less alone. He can see small twinkles of light in the distance, from other cabins. They glow happy and snug, nestled in other dark corners, behind other pines.
When Eddie steps into the house, the couch has been invitingly made up, with a blanket folded halfway down. He smirks. Someone is being ridiculously sweet, today. Eddie takes the unspoken request and begrudgingly stretches out on the tartan cushions, feeling silly for looking around, expecting another body to walk through the room.
Of course, no one does.