There was no feeling in the air when he walked into their apartment. Sometimes there was a lingering scent of a meal eaten, possibly the dry warmth of their baseboard heaters kicking on during the winter. Several Augusts ago, John Henry Simmons (aged 36.2, deep-set eyes, gaunt but lean build, double-jointed thumbs) swore that there was static in the air, and when he looked his wife in the eyes and said that, he knew with his heart that there wasn’t really anyone else he could ever be with. When Aya Simmons-Benasi (aged 33.5, narrow shoulders, unwavering gaze, with a cancerous mole on her lower back in need of removal) looked him in the eyes that night, she felt something different. Now, the kitchen lights were on as John Henry kicked off his muddied work boots at the door. His wool-socked feet left shadows of perspiration and condensation on the floor with each step. Aya stood with her elbows planted on the tile countertop, the coolness falling short at the bend of her arm. In her hands was an iPhone open to the black web browser page. Her eyes drifted toward her husband slowly.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
John Henry protracted one woolen foot from the ground and let gravity guide his
shoulder to the frame of the doorway.
“How was your day?”
The regularized question sounded almost inquisitive as it left her lips.
“It was fine, y’know. Checked out the site across town.”
“Fine? Just fine?”
Aya’s question was disarming to him.
“Yeah, what do you mean? Is everything okay? How was your day?”
Aya looked at the date and time on her watch and then back again at her husband of eight long years. She squinted. “Did you forget the anniversary is today?”
John Henry thought for a moment. Aya did as well. “No, of course not.”
John Henry’s response occurred in less than a stanzaic break’s worth of time, but even that felt inappropriately long. The two searched each other’s eyes in the brief moments between the dialogue. Was this the day that John Henry had asked Aya out to a coffee date nearly 15 years ago? Could this have been the date on which one of Aya’s many deceased family members had passed on? Maybe it was something else, some national tragedy that had bound their youth to fear and gun violence? The refrigerator hummed. Elsewhere a car alarm went off. John stepped toward Aya, hesitantly reaching for the cabinet near her head. Aya pulled back and instinctively scrolled on her phone as the unpurified tap water ran from the faucet and into a glass. Their eyes darted to each other but never seemed to catch their gazes at the same time. Both moved with slight indignancy, at the prospect of forgetting the anniversary and being accused of having forgotten. They both felt a need to speak, but it was John Henry who did
so first. “I remembered, Aya.”
The words sounded bold as he turned off the faucet. She slid her phone into a denim pocket. The wrinkle in her furrowed brow deepened as she watched John Henry take a long swig.
“I know you did, I just didn’t know if you wanted to—”
“Yeah, I know. I know,” John Henry knew. “Can we talk about it tomorrow, maybe?”
Aya shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She genuinely considered the
counteroffer. But wasn’t this important to her? “Yeah. Do you still want to, um, make something?”
“Maybe. We could just order takeout. That would be easier.”
“Okay.”
The pair’s eyes met again. Aya was an inch or two shorter than John Henry. But her shoes often made her just as tall.
“Okay.”
Silence filled the kitchen. They both looked away.
Later that night they brushed their teeth next to each other. This was an exercise that they had performed for years. Sometimes John Henry would wait for Aya to begin the tradition of wetting his toothbrush. They use different toothpastes, and Aya flossed on a much less regular basis. Still, they stood in front of their dirty bathroom mirror playing a silent game of who will spit out the toothpaste first. Aya ran the faucet to get the paste suds off of the sink. “I have to pee.”
John Henry washed off his toothbrush and promptly left the bathroom, a mere six feet away from their queen-sized bed. He sat on the side of the bed and hunched over his phone for a few moments. Swiping through apps, John Henry ensured that he hadn’t missed a reminder or event. John Henry plugged his phone into the wall outlet and laid still in bed. He was a stiff board of a man. His gaze rose toward the spackled ceiling. The bathroom was quiet until Aya blew her nose. She flushed, hit the lights, and existed in a rehearsed dance of the night.
In bed, they held each other for a long time. This was more of a sensual experience than a sexual one, an honest expression of their prolonged bed fellowship. Both got tired of their close proximity at some point. Their shared warmth created uncomfortable heat under the stress of a top sheet, comforter, and throw blanket.
“Good night.”
“Goodnight.”
John Henry and Aya rolled over, facing opposite directions. Maybe this was the closest two humans could be in life, but there’s a chance not. They were both asleep as the minutes slowly passed 12:00 am. The anniversary was over and maybe something had changed, but there was a chance not.