Her perfume was too sweet. Like fake flowers. It clung to his sheets. To his skin. He showered. Couldn't get it off.
Mika. That was her name. She worked at a bank. Nice. Normal. She liked his quiet. Thought it was deep.
It wasn't deep. It was empty.
They went to dinner. A place with cloth napkins. She talked. Her voice was a pleasant hum. He nodded. Smiled at the right places. Drank the wine. It tasted like vinegar.
She reached across the table. Touched his hand. "You're somewhere else."
"Sorry," he said. Brought himself back. To the candlelight. To her face. A nice face. Pretty. It meant nothing.
He took her home. Kissed her at the door. Her mouth was soft. Willing. It tasted like lip gloss. Like nothing.
He walked back to his apartment. A real one now. Small. Clean. A job driving deliveries. Steady.
The city at night was a habit. Lights he didn't see. Sounds he didn't hear.
He lit a cigarette. Leaned against a bridge railing. The water below was black oil.
Automatic. That was the word. His life was on automatic. Wake up. Drive. Eat. See Mika. Sleep. Repeat. No thought. Just motion.
Being with Mika was a rehearsal. For a play that had been cancelled years ago. He'd touch her hair. And think of a different texture. A different smell. Mint, not perfume.
He'd kiss her. And his brain would flash. A different taste. Tobacco and tears.
She'd laugh. And he'd hear an echo. A snort on a cold roof. Idiot.
He was using her. To fill a silence. It was unfair. He knew it. He kept doing it.
One night. At her place. Music on. Something bland. Jazz. She was cooking. Smell of garlic and soy.
He looked at her. In the kitchen light. She was humming. Happy.
A pain hit him. Sudden. Sharp. Below the ribs. It was grief. For her. For the real person she was. Who was stuck with his ghost.
He couldn't do it.
He left. Didn't explain. Just walked out. Left her standing there with a wooden spoon in her hand. Confusion on her nice face.
He never called back.
He sat in his apartment. In the dark. The silence was back. But it was his now. Chosen. He deserved it.
He pulled a box from the closet. Cardboard. Water-stained. Inside, junk. Old receipts. A broken watch. A single glove.
At the bottom. A book. A cheap paperback. He opened it. To the middle.
There. Tucked between the pages.
Half of a photograph.
His half. The tear was jagged. Down the middle of her face. He had her shoulder. Part of her smile. The blue sky.
He hadn't looked at it in years. Couldn't.
He held it now. In the dim light from the street. The colors were fading. Turning yellow at the edges. The image was a ghost. A memory of a memory.
He traced the line of her shoulder with his thumb. A piece of her. Frozen in 1999.
This was all he had. A fragment. While she was out there. Living a whole life. A life in color. Full of new sounds. New smells. New people who weren't ruins.
He was the ruin. Sitting in the dark. With his piece of paper.
Automatic. The year of going through the motions. The year of understanding that the motions were all he had left.
He put the photo back in the book. Put the book back in the box. Pushed the box back into the dark.
He didn't sleep. Sat by the window. Watched the night turn gray.
He was rehearsing a life. For an audience of no one. In a theater that was falling down.