What the Envelope Held

The bench was damp. You sat anyway.

"Knew you'd be here."

"You knew nothing. You hoped."

"Same thing most days."

The street behind us was rumbled over by a bus. The taill lights flashed red in the dusk and we both saw them. We both did not turn our heads quickly enough to see the passengers. Just the glow. Just the leaving.

"You brought them."

"Yeah."

"Even after I said not to."

"I know what you said."

I picked up the envelope out of my coat pocket. Didn't hand it over. Just held it on my knee. The corner had been softened by me bending it and unbending it all afternoon. Bloodied where my finger continued to rub against the same place.

You will give it to me or, will you leave it sitting there breathing?

It does what it has been doing the last six months, breathing. Might as well keep at it."

She laughed. Not a real laugh. The type you produce when your throat is tight and you have to loosen something before it dislocates.

"Jesus, Leo. You always used to tell ugly things nice things.

"Learned from you."

Silence again. But softer this time. One that fits between two individuals who shared a kitchen.

"You cut your hair."

"Yeah."

"Looks good."

"Liar."

"No. Looks tired. But good."

She shifted on the bench. Wood creaked. Her knee bumped mine. Neither of us moved away.

"Remember that diner on 4th? The one who had the jukebox, and that only played sad songs?

"The Blue Moon."

"Yeah. You ate pie crust first. Always. out the stuff as it owed you money.

You drank black coffee even at the age of seventeen. Said it built character. Actually you just liked to feel mature.

You said that your name was Clara to the waitress. For three weeks straight. Just to see if anyone'd notice."

"I was lonely."

"We were kids."

"Yeah."

A bicycle clutching kid rattled by, with training wheels askew on the road. His mom was running after him, screaming, Slow down, baby, slow down, as though it was possible to make your slow down.

"You still paint?" I asked.

"Sometimes. Houses mostly. Pay the bills."

"Not the big canvases?"

"Not the big feelings."

I nodded. Looked at the envelope again. The address was wrong. I had purposefully written it wrong 214, not 241. A mistake anyone would catch. Any one who had any idea where she resided.

"You living with him?"

"Who?"

"The guy."

"There is no guy."

"Oh."

"There's a cat. His name's Frank. He judges me silently. It's a healthy relationship."

I smiled. Couldn't help it. There are muscles that recall earlier than your head.

Take the envelope, I said.

"Why's it matter now?"

"Because I'm moving. For real this time. Portland. Got a job framing houses. Not painting them. Just… making the bones."

"Portland's rainy."

"I like the quiet rain makes."

"You hate rain."

"I used to."

She finally looked at me. Not in my hands or even by my side. Right at my eyes. As she did, she was seeing whether the lights were still on in the house.

"You look older."

"You too."

"Not a bad older."

"No. Just… older."

The bus stop light fluted over the street. Sulfuric pool beneath a sheet of metal. No one waiting.

I read your letters, I read your letters, I said under my breath.

"All of them?"

"Till the third one. Then I stopped."

"Why?"

Since you kept telling me sorry as though it were a rock on which you could toss and knock some bit. And I did not want anything broken any further.

"I wasn't sorry for leaving."

"I know. You regretted your remaining away.

"Yeah."

"You could've called."

"I know."

"You could've shown up."

"I know."

You should not have got me into a park bench on a Tuesday to get whatever this is.

I handed her the envelope. She took it. Didn't open it.

"What's inside?"

"Nothing."

She turned it over. Felt the flatness.

"Nothing."

"Yeah."

"Why bring nothing?"

Since you last carried something with you so I gave you a ring, a promise, a entire damn of a future and you took it back and remarked that it was too heavy to carry. So I suppose nothing is pretty light.

Her face did that thing. The one in which sorrow and passion dress in identical attire and you cannot distinguish between them until one of them starts moving.

"You idiot," she whispered.

"Yeah."

You are three hours old to bring me a blank envelope.

"Four. Traffic was hell."

She tore it open. Looked inside. High in the air on her lap. Nothing fell out. She looked at me. Eyes shiny but dry. Tough eyes.

"Nothing," she said.

"Nothing."

She sealed the envelope. Not like trash. As a receipt you may require at some time. Slid it into her back pocket.

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, you brought nothing. Now what?"

"I don't know."

"Good. For once, don't know."

She stood up. Wet with a brush on the back of her jeans. Didn't look at me leaving. Just was quietly staring at the street as though she was waiting to see a bus coming that was not coming.

You have some walks to me to your car?

"No."

"You want me to stay?"

"No."

"You want me to go?"

She turned then. Looked right at me. The streetlight flicked on over us--blood flame on blue gloom--and a moment her face was pure shadow and light like a one of her old pictures.

I desire that you should come back tomorrow. Same bench. Bring coffee. Sure coffee, not that gas station swill. And don't bring an envelope."

"Okay."

"Just you."

"Just me."

"And Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Cut your hair. You look like a sad poet."

I touched my head. Laughed for real this time.

"Yeah."

She started walking. Didn't wave. Didn't look back. And now walked out to the corner where the light was green.

I stayed on the bench. Fifty, sixty as I did when we fought. Similar to how, a long wait would restart the world to the past.

It didn't.

But the air felt different. Lighter. As though it were a thing that was put aside.

I stood up. Walked to my car. Didn't look toward her corner.

Tomorrow I'd bring coffee. Two sugars for her. Black for me.

And I would not carry an envelope.

But I would take the thing indoors in it--the thing that was neither paper nor ink nor anything that you could hold.

I'd bring that.

And see whether it was light enough to bear.