Work of Art

The shop that sold memories.

It’s a strange sight. One that I’m getting more used to though. Your face is marred with emotion, your eyes slightly wild and unrecognisable. I know those eyes, I tell myself, I once used to look in them, and notice the dark brown flecks dancing with some hidden joke that you never shared. I can’t see them now. You’re standing on the stairs a few steps up and the angle’s wrong, all I can see is the set of your chin. Your left earring is missing. I’d been meaning to buy you one more to replace it but I just hadn’t got around to it. The other one swings from your ear with the force of your voice, pale against the flush of your neck.

This must be quite a tableau – me, at the foot of the stairs, my bag forgotten and limp against the bottom step, the laces of my shoes undone but the shoes still on, you, one hand clenched tight on the stair-rail and the other pointing, stabbing, accusing. You’re yelling something but I can’t hear it, the sound of the rain pounding against the window is too loud. Actually, no, it isn’t too loud, I’m just not listening I think. We’ve been here before, this has happened before, and I’m guessing it will again.

My eyes flicker to the wall. There’s a slight crack where you once tried to hang the painting that we’d bought from the second-hand store down the road. You loved that shop, it was old and held the memories of a hundred different strangers, you said. I remember thinking then that was quite a smart thing to say.

You’ve given up I see, and you turn and tear your way upstairs. I try to call your name, but my throat’s dry from not talking. I swallow once and try again, but then a sudden crazy realisation skims quickly through my head – I’ve forgotten your name. It comes to me almost immediately of course, but the frisson through my spine doesn’t leave quite as quickly. Kicking off my shoes, I walk up after you. My bag’s on the floor, ignored or forgotten, I don’t quite care. The railing’s still warm from where you were gripping it, and I linger there for a second, feeling the once-familiar warmth of your hand, before I continue on. There’s a crash from upstairs as the door slams. I pause, sigh, turn and walk back out.

The papers arrive in the mailbox of my rented apartment the week after.

The plain brown envelope is slightly stained with water. Tears, I tell myself, but the rain belies my little fantasy. You don’t cry for me anymore.

Somewhere, in a shop at the corner of a quiet street, in a little cardboard box labelled “Collectibles” is a photograph of two people, laughing. It’s cold there, and they’re holding each other tightly. The trees behind them are turning golden and brown and there’s a bird perched on one of their branches, beak open and its song forever frozen in time. A hand lifts through the photographs slowly, pausing here, and then moves on.

Beautiful abstract, which I plagiarized from someone's blog. A big fan of his style and writing. So free-flowing, vivid and emotional. A work of art indeed.