The bowl of gazpacho sat cold on the table.
Outside it was thick with snow. The storm had come suddenly but was over now. The Michigan countryside was still except for the slow grey fingers from chimneys. The black squirrels that normally dashed about were missing. The morning sky continued to snow but without malice. Slow silent diamonds flitted though the morning air. The house was modest but charming, a single story with wide clapboards; modern colonial. Its broad shoulders pushed up through the snow. It nuzzled into a stand of white cedar halfway up the hill. In the driveway, a depression in the snow betrayed a now absent car - but it would, before long, obviate into the whiteness. A few yellow and orange leaves still clung to their branches in the canopy. Winter had come early and it had come with conviction.
James drew his blanket tight and burrowed back into his pillow. He was glad it was Sunday. One of those mornings when no one would go anywhere. It was nearly noon and the strong smell of vegetables that had woke him was gone. As if from a dream, he craved soup but he did not understand why. He sat up slowly and paused while he waited for his balance. He thought he might be hungry but mostly he was nauseous. He turned and rested his head against the window, looking out past the barbaric frost and glass. The falling snow looked like static. He watched for a time until his brow grew cold and his breath fogged his view. He slowly rolled over from the window to an empty bed.
He eased himself out of bed finding the floor firm and cold. It seemed to support him well enough but his calves quivered under his weight. The bathroom was his first stop. He paused at his naked reflection, a rickety frame that was milky white save a thin line of dark hair down his stomach. He looked through his long bangs at the mirror; moist black locks that hung down covering his eyes. He pulled the hair out of his face so that it fell down his back. His eyes were full and round with tight crow’s feet at the corners. They were young but weathered. He opened his eyes wide, a swirl of grey and blue stood in stark contrast with his dark lashes and eyebrows. His lips were thin and tight and the shadow of a beard was visible. His ribs strained against his chest as if they might break through. His nipples were becoming hard. His genitals had retreated from the cold and he was disappointed by this. He pulled at them and tried to coax them out for inspection, but they were beyond his command. He went to the toilet.
Standing there as the room spun lazily he held onto the porcelain with one hand. He began to wonder if he would vomit or piss. He scratched at his ass cautiously and then began to piss.
This was a relief. The warm scent of his own urine was a strange comfort.
He staggered into the den, ending on the sofa. He turned on the TV without thought. The room filled with a blue counterfeit warmth. Clutching a quilt James struggled in vain to find a comfortable position. While it was noon outside it looked much the same as it had during the night; a silent testament to the storm. James flipped through the channels for a while. His fingers seemed to respond to the images but he couldn’t focus on anything. Uneasy, he squirmed trying to settle into a restful place. He became fascinated as the room swayed, the TV was its pivot, fascinated until it made him feel out of sorts. He turned has gaze away from the television and instead to a painting on the wall. It was a nearly naked woman standing at the end of a hall. She was wearing a transparent pink gown and leaning against a wall. He couldn’t remember the name of it but he thought the naked woman had great tits and so he liked it. James yawned. He began feeling the absence but had not realized what it meant.
Something was wrong.
Sam was asleep in the hallway, settled on a heating grate. That wasn't it.
Wait, he thought, where is she?
He called out to her.
Sam stirred.
He called out to her again.
Then James lurched back up and scanned the house. He started with the hallway. Nothing. Next the kitchen. Again nothing. He wandered the length of the house but failed to produce any results. He ended his search in the bathroom.
Pausing there he clung to a towel rack trying to remember if she said anything that would explain her absence but the act of thinking made him light-headed. The hair on his arms rose and sweat began to appear on his neck. He tried to maintain his composure but his head became heavy and he leaned forward. He could feel his stomach begin to retch. He fell to his knees and clutched the callous toilet in quiet desperation. His knuckles grew white under his weight. It was at times like these that he would rather die; for dying, he assumed, could feel no worse. That and it would only happen once. He vainly hoped he would not have to throw up again.
His stomach convulsed and he waited. Sweat beaded across his body and he was no longer cold. A drop fell off his chin and into the bowl but he didn’t notice. He tried to call out but it was only a whimper. James closed his eyes and waited. Then it came.
It poured out. Out of his throat and into the bowl. Instinctively, he held on to the toilet in a daze.
As it rushed out it was hot against his lips. He tried not to think about the foul taste, he tried to concentrate on keeping it all in the bowl. Again and again it rushed forward. His mind lost all focus.
When it abated he drew in lungfulls of air and James looked down to see he was covered in his own filth. James watched as it leaked down his belly and onto his crotch. It was thin and soupy, almost red. It was warm against his skin. The words "treasure trail" came into his mind before he threw up again.
He was pale now and the sweat covered him. He spit a few times to try and clear the taste before he collapsed to the floor. He was in laying in vomit and he didn’t care. It was warm and the tile was cold and the combination brought him some comfort. As he wiped the wet hair off his face, it occurred to him that it smelled of smoke and liquor. He lay still for a quarter of an hour until everything was cold.
Mustering the strength to rise he climbed the sink. He was about to look at himself in the mirror again, then thought better of it. He could see it all over his body. He brushed it off his arms and began picking off the bigger pieces that he would not try to identify. He cleaned it off his side and pulled it from the hairs on this stomach. He wiped it off his balls.
He turned on the water and began to rinse his hands. When he felt they were clean he splashed water in his face and drank enough to rinse his mouth. Spitting the water back in an effort to clear his palette. Again and again he spit into the sink. He turned off the water suddenly; it was not over.
When he next threw up he managed to get it all into the toilet and he was pleased with himself.
Soon there was nothing left to give. His stomach was empty but he continued to heave. He looked as if he were acting out a scene, just going through the motions and making a lot of noise.
Finally James realized it was over.
This time he lifted himself from the bowl to the sink. It took all his strength. He picked up the toothbrush next to the sink. He unscrewed the cap from the toothpaste and dropped it but did not bother to look for it. Out of habit he began to brush his front teeth but then remembered his purpose. Slowly he scrapped his tongue, more and more until the taste was gone.
He pulled a towel from the rack. He dried and cleaned himself. He began to wipe off the vomit but
made no real effort to find all of it. He wiped his legs, then between his legs. He did not rinse the towel, only turning it with use. He wiped his chest and finally his face. Little tufts of cotton stuck to his beard. He dropped the towel on the floor and made his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen was immaculate. Everything had been put away. Every towel was clean and folded. The sink was glowing with stainless steel; the floor with white tiles. A row of glasses stood upside down in the dish rack. A few spoons and a knife rested next to the glasses. The table was made for one although it seated four.
Where the hell could she be, he thought, especially on a day like this?
He sat down at the table with the cold soup. Upon the table was a spoon, a bowl, a napkin and a note. James took the napkin and wiped his brow, then used it to cover his genitals in a clumsy attempt at decency. As he picked up the spoon next to the bowl, James saw the note. The spoon fell back to table in silence.
It was a brief handwritten note, it simply read:
Goodbye.
"What? So she's gone is she?
Bullshit.
I'll believe that when it happens.
She doesn’t have the balls to leave."
He sat quietly for a time and did not move. Many thoughts fluttered about in his head and he tried to attend to each to them. Then James rubbed his eyes as hard as he could stand.
"Ah, who needs her anyway?"
As if waiting for an answer he looked over to Sam. "Right Sam?"
Sam rolled over to warm his other half.
"Fucking dog." James shook his head.
He crumpled up the paper and threw it in Sam’s direction.
He picked up a spoon again, as if it were a shovel. He stirred the bowl. The soup was thin and red. She had made him the soup in the past and he remembered it fondly. She had always made it with love. There were chunks of vegetables in it but he could not identify them. The mixture was cool to his lips and that was a strange comfort. He tasted the soup; it was better than he had remembered. Slowly he spooned at it, more and more until the bowl was empty.
