Second Hand

By Tyler Marable

I'm not afraid of dying anymore. Death is only frightening because of uncertainty. How I'll die, when I die, I know this. So I have nothing to fear.

You disagree.

“Bullshit,” you'd say, “everyone's afraid of dying.”

“Not me,” I'd reply.

You walk through the door with sagging shoulders. It slams shut. The picture of our daughter nearly falls. Your lunch pail drops from tired hands and bounces on the floor. Clearly, work has been hard today.

“How was your day?” I ask.

You mumble something and walk to the kitchen and return with a drink. It's Coke, and I smell a hint of whiskey.

I stand.

“Please stay,” you say.

I do.

The TV fills the silence between us, and it's oddly disturbing. The news anchor’s voice is more awkward than the words we leave unsaid. I've become rather acquainted with speechless nights.

The news anchor talks about the death of a senator. He died from pancreatic cancer. You quickly turn the channel.

“So, how was your day?” you change the subject.

I say nothing.

You become frustrated and reach into your shirt pocket. A pack of Newports, your favorite. You pull one from the pack with a shaking hand.

I stand.

“Please stay,” you say.

I do.

You lean out the front door, blowing smoke into the fall air.

“Where's your wig?” you ask.

“Probably where I left it.”

You always ask that. I've told you a million times it makes my head itch.

The cigarette burns bright, your fist trembles. You haven't had that much to drink yet. So you put your fist back into your pocket and ignore my smart remark.

Your sun-kissed skin is nearly the same color as your stained teeth. I notice a white circle where your ring used to be. I don't blame you for not wearing it. I stopped wearing mine.

“It's a beautiful evening.” Your cough is back, punctuating your sentences.

I say nothing.

“What do you want from me?” You cough again.

“Nothing,” I say.

You cough again. It comes from your chest rather than your mouth. Sometimes I think you're as sick as I am.

I stand.

“Please stay,” you say with a cough.

I do.

The coughing stops. You clear your throat and turn. I'm puzzled by your eyes. They seem to be dancing.

“I'm sorry,” you say.

I say nothing.

“I'm sorry, baby.” Your eyes shimmer even more.

“Don't do this,” I say.

The cigarette is flicked into the yard. The door shuts. Your boots drum on the wood floor.

“I'm sorry, baby.”

“Don't do this.” My eyes start to tear, too.

“It's my fault,” you say and place a hand on my head. You stroke it like you used to stroke my hair. “I did this to you.”

“Please stop,” I whisper.

“I love you, Elaine.”

You drop to one knee and pull two rings from your pocket. You must have fished mine out of the garbage weeks ago.

“Please forgive me.” The ring slides back onto my finger. It's a little too big. I forgot how much weight I've lost. Yours doesn't quite fit either and squeezes on.

“Please forgive me,” you whisper again.

It would be hard to forgive you. But leaving you and our daughter is even harder.

I wipe a tear from your face. “It's okay, I'm not afraid of dying.”

“Bullshit, everyone's afraid of dying!”

I say nothing.

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