Lots of Monkeys

     This week was ghosts.
     A few wayward strands of her hair brushed against my cheek as she sat down next to me. She always felt that the metro was cold, even in the summer, and I was a convenient source of heat. I felt her head on my shoulder as she settled into the seat and closed the small gap between us. Familiar fingers entwined themselves with mine.
     The seat next to me was empty, but I felt her touch.
     Last week, it was her voice. When I indulged in light eavesdropping at the art show, she admonished me. She laughed at the funny stories I told the regulars at the bar. She ordered her favorite dishes at the restaurants that we loved. On the train, she whispered silly comments in my ear about the other commuters.
     The week before, it was her reflection. I’d see her in the bathroom mirror, arms wrapped around me as I splashed water on my face. Window shopping, I’d see her laugh as she pointed at objects in boutique windows. I’d see her reflected in the smoke grey plastic of the train windows, seated next to me as I went home.
     But this week–this week was ghosts.
     I’d grown used to it. This wasn’t the only time. Monday, she massaged the back of my neck after I got home from work. Tuesday, I woke up with her arm draped over me, her body rising and falling with soft breaths that I felt on my neck. During those times, I kept my eyes closed. I knew it wasn’t happening, but it was a small comfort.

     That day was wet. She was due to return from a short business trip to New York. They had only recently started dating, but they were already living together. She had a drawer. She had a toothbrush in his sink. She had documents on his computer.
     He was making lunch in the small kitchen with the groceries they had purchased last week. He smiled and remembered when they went shopping. He shook his head. He shouldn’t feel like this. Not this ridiculously happy.
     He looked out the single solitary window. It was a hard rain. The sheets of water made everything look washed out.
     The old house creaked and groaned and did a good job being disheveled and wet. It smelled like wet dog, which was remarkable because there was no dog. The house was definitely in disrepair, but the rent was cheap, and the location was convenient. He thought that maybe later they would move out and find an apartment together.
     He thought about the meal, and decided that he would make something special for her return. The extra steps involved would make the time pass.
     He was taking the quiche out of the oven just as he saw her car park across the street. He turned off the oven, picked up the umbrella and briskly walked to the front door.
     She had already started walking across the street. He opened the door, unfolded the umbrella, and met her in the middle of the street.
     She hugged him and rested her head on his shoulder. She squeezed him. “You’re warm.”
     Even though she couldn’t see, he smiled and squeezed back. “You’re wet.”

     Under the umbrella, they kissed.

Perhaps this next train is the one. The one that contains the girl that you’re going to marry. A smile creeps up onto your face.

Or, it could contain your true death, the one to end your suffering, the one to end the little deaths you experience each day.

You scan the cars for beauty and instability. Neither category in the cars tonight.

Sometimes, you see it on the platform waiting. Either putting on makeup or mumbling curse words and kicking recycling bins.

Neither is very hard to spot.