Cross-stitched Cushions and the Inevitable Emptiness

The silence that slowly chewed away at the corners of his apartment had only gotten worse as the night progressed. Little by little, he watched and waited for the dim glow of the stars to filter through the cracked shades that hung over his windows, yearning for their companionship as he drifted off, alone.

            Noiselessly he sat, and like ginger roots that have aged through the ancient years, his hands were gnarled and twisted together, stiff and unbending.

            In the faded floral pinks of his sofa he was restless, wizened with age and marked with the sagging lines of a spent life " his frail body a stark contrast against the plump cross-stitched pillows and sewed cushions that had been carefully stitched, needle through thread, many years ago.

            The old man stood, walked over to his kitchen in hesitant steps, an offbeat rhythm that faintly faltered between each breath. He poured himself a glass of water, adding a pinch of salt that he rubbed between his fingers, waiting for it to slowly dissolve into a cloudy liquid. Holding it up to his thin and toneless lips, his tongue searched for its bitter taste only to find that the water was sweet, as sweet as the taste of mint toothpaste on his freshly cleaned dentures, the only taste he could ever remember knowing. 

            Perhaps it was this sickening sweet taste that he could no longer endure, the yellow cabinets and cushion covers that littered the furnishings of his apartment, or simply the gradual muscular weakening that came with his old age " the glass slipped through his fingers, its pieces scattered and contents dispersed. Promptly it was cleaned, but an unsettling damage had skid its way into the room, and now the old man had no choice but to acknowledge the hurt, the distress and discomfort he had begun to fear in his own home.

            The relentless gnawing of his memories along the edges of his conscious mind had turned into a pounding that demanded to be heard. Hard as he tried, he struggled to push them back down his throat, deep down into a sanctuary that only served to keep him numb and unfeeling. The couch, the cushions, even the crack of starlight between the shadows was a memory of his deceased wife, residue left over from the years of her life. Her shoes had been left neatly placed in rows beside the doorway, empty soles that stayed firm for feet that would never see daylight. The lavender walls and plush carpeting were picked after hours of meticulous deliberation, her taste artfully reflected in the confinements of their shared home.

            These details that had been left behind reminded him of the loss each and every day, the solitary silence becoming almost unbearable.

            In his bedroom, he crawled between the empty space of his duvet and covers. In their queen-sized mattress, his body seemed to have shrunk even further within its hollow shell. Her side of the bed lay untouched as he shifted closer to her pillow, imagining that if he breathed deeply enough, he could catch a brief whiff of her scent"orange peels and  pork rinds; familiarity. His sense of smell evaded him, and he retreated back to his side of the bed, letting her memories settle beside him, an overwhelming feeling of loss. The bed was unbalanced, unsymmetrical, her dark silhouette absent.

            28 years. 28 years of friendship and companionship, and then days of nothing that had come too abrupt. He could not move on " for him at least, it was much too late. But he would not deny himself life; he could live on, regardless.

            He reached towards the standing phone her hands had once touched. A page in the newspaper and then the numbers, highlighted, dialed one after another.

           

Pearson’s Real Estate, selling homes since 1943.

Reviews

[trainwreck]

This was fantastic. I usually am not a huge fan of short stories, but this one was not only well-written, it was well-crafted. Excellent piece. It's definitely going in my library. You could work the grammar a bit if you wanted, but it's pretty awesome already.

[Paddy]

I loved the build up towards the dead wife, that worked extremely well.
"Pearson’s Real Estate, selling homes since 1943." Beautiful ending, the part i thought would just need a little work would probably be "as sweet as the taste of mint toothpaste". The toothpaste part doesn't fit with the atmosphere, if you get what im trying to say.....other than that, another great write

[SaRuGi]

Amazing, breathtaking! :)

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good story. Hard to escape memories in a home shared with someone for many years. I like the description and how you ended the story. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote