Slate

excerpt

At home she cooks dinner so that she has something to do with her hands. She dices onions and peppers, sets them in a pan to sizzle in butter. She adds garlic and salt, the aroma hitting her face in a puff of steam. There’s a steak on a cutting board that she’ll sear on each side, quickly, so that the inside stays supple and red. She tosses a salad in a wooden bowl, drizzles oil over the top and dusts it with cheese. She takes a sip of wine and holds it in her mouth. She breathes. 

          When was the last time she ate? Maybe yesterday afternoon. The apple trees are fruiting, and she may have had a bite or two. The steak hits the pan with a hiss that sends Lisbeth's heart on a breakneck gallop. The sound, the sound, the sound. She’s afraid, that's all it is. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, and she knows this. Lisbeth clenches her teeth and makes herself hear it. By the time she flips the steak, she’s recovered, there’s only a slight sheen of sweat on her brow.

           Lisbeth’s hands are delicate as a dove's wings, fluttering over her dinner as she adds the finishing touches. She’s slender like a swipe of a pencil on a page. She knows that if she looked in the mirror she wouldn’t recognize herself, which is why she doesn’t look. But her plate is ready, and she brings it to the table.

         The steak drips as she brings the fork up to her mouth in huge, greedy bites. She’s hungrier tonight than she has been in months, and she enjoys the feeling. The house is lit up, lamps have been turned on in each room for the first time in a long time. She wishes there was music, but she contents herself with the scrape of her fork against the plate. Wine spills from the corner of her mouth as she takes a gulp. She uses her index finger to wipe it away. Another few bites and she’ll be full, but she eats and eats anyway.

           For dessert she baked a chocolate cake. Two layers, just like her mother used to make. Now she frosts the cake with buttercream and slices into it, licking the knife before she tosses it into the sink. It melts in her mouth, and she closes her eyes, satisfied with her work. She takes the slice over to the couch and sits. She scoops a heaping bite into her mouth and this is when it hits her. The grief. She chokes on the cake and spits it onto the floor, coughing and sputtering. Her chest is tight and she can’t breathe. This happens from time to time. It’ll pass. 

            Lisbeth scrubs the rug where the cake fell. The rest of it is in the trash. Tears still fall down her cheeks, but the sobs have died down. 

The day is hot and bright. Sunlight pours through the windows of the house and Lisbeth lets it in. Dust motes hang in lazy constellations in the beams. Lisbeth sits on the couch watching them, her eyes heavy with a drowsy weight. Why is she so tired? She slept for ten hours last night. She huddles onto the couch and rests her head, surrendering. 

            It's dark in her dream, but she isn’t afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of in the dark, not really. She’s walking down a hallway, but her footsteps are silent. She’s going forward because it was either that or turn back, and forward seemed like the right way. The hallway goes on and on, but Lisbeth doesn’t mind. In the distance she sees the red glow of an exit sign. Each silent step brings her closer. What's on the other side? Lisbeth reaches a hand out to push the door and a sliver of hot, white light slices through the darkness of the hall. The door gets stuck on something heavy. Lisbeth uses both hands to shove it but it doesn’t budge. She lets her hands fall, there’s nothing to do but go back. With one last glance at the light she turns and she sees it, whatever it is, standing on two legs and waiting for her, a hand stretched out for her to take. 

I can’t come with you. Let me pass. 

             It opens its mouth to speak and static pours out. 

          Lisbeth opens her eyes, and the bright day floods back. The house is quiet but her ears are ringing, sweat beads on her skin, down her back and through her shirt. She jumps off the couch, as if she can run from the lurking thing, but where would she go?