Everything and Nothing: Volume 1

By Nala Emme

Prose and poetry tell the multi-narrative story of one pivotal summer during the lives of four interconnected individuals as they grapple with family conflict, friendship, and individuality, with first love and second chances, with impermanence and spirituality, and with the sweeping awareness of mortality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664181182

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Nala Emme.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover Illustrator/Designer: Van Lawrence Ching

Rev. date: 06/17/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

832059

FOR

All the Michaels I’ve known – and truly not known despite my efforts.

All the Laylas, Michaels, Idrises, and Navins of the world:

the chaste, the start overers, the dazed, and those with

the capacity for accepting and giving enduring love.

And those without it.

Twentysomethings everywhere —

who are still figuring it all out.

Those resistant to love.

‘Plate spinners’ and playas.

Avoidant personality types.

Hippies.

Those young at heart (and those who should try harder to be).

Mischief.

Free Spirits.

Solitude and Self-Imposed Isolation.

The Moon and the darkness it inspires.

Everyone being nagged about getting married.

Jim Carrey, Adam Sandler, Anthony Kiedis,

Nelly Furtado, KRS-One

AAN

AB

NJ

FM

SK

NA

MM

IK

JSBA + SSN

MS

You know who you are.

Me.

I want to know who I am.

Contents

1.     Shady Lies, Crescent Eyes, And Sunset Pies

2.     Hardening A Darkened Garden

3.     A Winter-Proof Kind Of Love

4.     Dedicated To… Myself

5.     Autumn. And The Fall.

6.     No One Should Die Without Feeling This Way

7.     We Oughta Talk More

8.     A Knowing Smile

9.     Why Didn’t You Ever Give Up On Me?

10.   On The Hunt For Truth

11.   Supernatural Shine

YOU ARE

Trance, vibes, underground,

Slams, jams, dope music itself,

And shares of my past.

1

SHADY LIES, CRESCENT EYES,

AND SUNSET PIES

Idris: The sudden, explosive click of the door handle turning. My chest tightens. My shoulders jump. The frosted glass door of my home office is thrust open conclusively. Inhaling a gasp, I slammed the photo album shut and shoved it inside my gym bag. My fingers fumbled but I closed the zipper in time to see Noor stepping into the room. She was petite, but she gave off heat that I could feel from across the room as she stood in the doorway glaring at me, unsure of the judgment she wanted to pass. Her eyes questioned what I had been doing in the stuffy room for so long, but we both knew she’d come to an inference.

"You’re jumpy." Her face was rigid with solemnity. My clammy, prickly palms pressed the bag that sat on my lap, wanting it to disappear into my thighs. Its fabric glowed guilty-red with the offense of confidential information. I feared she’d lunge at me and yank it out of my death grip, a hold that I had to keep reminding myself to slacken.

You startled me. I maintained an expressionless pretense. Making sure I have everything in here, I announced, implying that I’d be heading off to the gym. Though I’d avoided telling a direct lie, this ability to blurt a made-up story left me disillusioned about my integrity. The upright, constant character that I had constructed over the years – was it beginning to unravel?

With one final sharp, distrustful stare, she turned on her heel, yanking the door toward her. Her footsteps faded quickly as she marched back down the hallway. The slamming door punctuated our heavy exchange, making my heart clench.

Releasing my breath, I stowed the bag in the closet, knowing I could never be free of the heavy sense of guilt. This is a situation entirely of your own making, Idris, I heard my former boss’ voice in my head. I’d tell Noor that I would go to the gym later in the week instead. I mentally prepared myself to face her in the bedroom, uncertain whether she’d seen any evidence from the bag and whether she’d known I was lying.

I found the dark bedroom empty and cold. Walking back out into the hallway, I listened for movement. The sounds of doors being locked and the security alarm being set for the night floated up the stairs. Desperate to ease her worries and to behave naturally for once, I scrambled down the stairs to her, coming to a casual, unassuming saunter as I neared the kitchen where she sat at the table.

Want a midnight snack?

Sulking back in her seat, she stared darkly at her manicured fingernails, her fear of betrayal turning her expression into sharp angles, and shook her head no.

I walked over to her. Tea?

She shook her head again as she quickly stood up to avoid me getting any nearer. She headed toward the backyard door instead. I caught her gently by the shoulder. Noor? What’s wrong? I already knew.

She shrugged out of my grip. Standing with her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the backyard door with night on the other side, she pulled the sheer white curtains around her, concealing herself within her protective cocoon. She looked out at the darkened garden bathed in moonlight.

Nothing, she said flatly. "At least I hope it’s nothing."

What do you mean?

She refused to speak, apparently struggling to quiet her mental chatter. I gently led her back to the kitchen table where she slowly explained her perspective.

Given your shady behavior lately, I have my doubts about your faithfulness to me.

"What?"

Are you cheating on me?

"No. Why would you think I’m cheating on you?"

She looked as though she’d regret telling me her reasons, believing I’d use her answers as a way to strengthen my tactics to remain elusive and continue cheating.

You quickly close computer tabs when I enter your room. You’re possessive of that gym bag. You don’t let your journal out of your sight. You used to let me read it and even write in it sometimes. Now it would have to be pried out of your hands. You don’t come to bed at the same time as me anymore. The list goes on. You can hardly blame me for thinking I’m being cheated on.

Okay… I took a deep breath. I understand why you would think that. I have been possessive of my belongings, but it’s not what you think. I have no reason to do that. You give me everything I need. I married you. Marriage is no joke. You’re the woman I love.

That’s never stopped people before. There are tons of cheaters that still want to keep their home lives in tact.

"There’s no one else," I emphasized.

She looked away in contemplative silence, which always warned me that she preferred not to exchange anymore words until she was ready to make peace at a later time. The intense stillness was pierced by a light sigh through her nose, an indication of impatience.

Fine. I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. I don’t want to be made a fool, if something was to be going on under my nose, she warned.

That won’t happen.

She narrowed her eyes at me.

It’s not such a ridiculous notion to have this speculation, she challenged. "My aunts are being cheated. I’ve been cheated."

Then, quickly getting up again, Noor jogged upstairs and into the bedroom where I would be expected to lie with her.

But all I could see was Navin’s smiling eyes.

***

Navin: Rubbing my belly and staring both regretfully and with desire at the open box of chocolate chip cookies by my side on the couch, I let out a groan. I have no self-control, I admitted to Lucasta.

How many lines have you done? she asked from the kitchen.

I hesitated to answer, dreading the inevitable judgment. One full line.

Put it away, Nav, she ordered.

Why did I say anything, I regretted out loud, wanting to defy her, to keep munching their crunch and inhaling their warm sweetness.

It was a cry for help.

Although—

Here we go. Devil’s advocate—

"It is Layla’s birthday. I don’t need self-control on a day of celebration." She woke up to me holding a candle-lit cupcake to her face. We ate at her favorite brunch spot, then shopped for back-to-school supplies. Matt and Adina would swing by in the evening to fulfill her birthday wish – a movie marathon with her two best friends. When we returned from the mall, she’d passed out on the couch, her mouth agape like she’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, her bent knees slowly falling to one side. The scene reminded me of my horrible dream from that morning:

I sat on the rocking chair by the window of Layla’s nursery watching her sleep with her little bottom to the ceiling. I’d been absorbed by the low music floating from the stereo in a corner. I listened raptly to three hours’ worth of repetitive, tinkling piano music used for hypnosis, spas, and sleep-induction. With my knees pulled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them, I looked around feebly at the quiet, soft pink room. I took in the warmth and whimsy of the amber string lights draped on the floating shelves, around the window frame, down the side of the photo bulletin board above her chest of drawers, and cascading down the tulle curtains above her crib. I imagined whisking her away with me under the cover of night and driving to a port in another town hours away. We’d board a cruise ship sailing to an unknown tropical destination, where the water would be clear, blue, and freezing cold so that if I should wade in neck-deep, I’d become anesthetized to every tumultuous thought I had since the day Idris…

A tear rolled down my cheek. Escape. Once again it had become my first mental resort. Any time I believed I’d never have to feel that deeply dissatisfied again, ‘What am I doing here?’ and ‘I need to get out of here’ returned forcefully. I sincerely contemplated ending it all, my life – or the shoddy semblance of a life – but the consideration always came back to Layla and what would become of her. I didn’t do much to try and quell the flood of suicidal thoughts besides distract myself with my parents’ devastation over both my established and my prospective demise.

When Layla stirred and opened her eyes a crack, I placed my hand on her stomach for comfort. Her smooth, chubby fingers weakly and sleepily caressed mine. She pinched my knuckles, dug her tiny nails into the ball of my thumb, and drifted off to sleep again. I wanted to wake her up just to kiss every millimeter of her skin. She looked so much like Idris that it broke my heart. I wrote suicide notes in my head and drafted plans. Sometimes they involved long drinks from bottles of household cleaners. Sometimes I planned to starve to death, but that one wasn’t possible with breastfeeding.

Layla’s breathing, the feeling of her rib cage against my palm when she turned over onto her side and her soft snoring, returned me to reality. She came from me and through me. Who else would help her become herself, if not me? I’d never been enough for anything or anyone. I wanted to prevent her from having the same self-defeating mindset that tortured me for decades. Once again, my confidence and self-esteem were shattered. Every sleepy sigh, twitch, and furrowed brow made me fall deeper in love with her. I couldn’t leave her if I tried. How had Idris managed? I glanced at the door out of habitual anticipation, wondering where he was. I looked away, disappointed and frustrated. There was a time when we’d been so synchronized that he’d often wandered into the room just as the question dissipated.

A sharp intake of breath and a deep sigh startled me. It was the sound of a man crying. Idris walked through the door in delirious tears. Staggered by the sight of him, I quickly stood as he walked toward me. I hope you won’t stop loving me, if we’re ever in separate places in life.

I had a vague sense of déjà vu, as I repeated what I’d said to him in the initial stages of our marriage when I feared our relationship might end up destroyed like those of our parents. I won’t, but if anything should come between us, we’re both free to leave. That’s the beauty of it – we choose to be with each other every day.

In a whirlwind of movement, he pulled me in and I threw my arms around him so tightly that I thought I might suffocate him, but I wouldn’t loosen my grip. As I pulled back slightly to look into the face I’d yearned to see, in hopes that its original youthful excitement had been restored during the time we’d spent apart, fragments of his skin sank into concave curves that slowly opened into wider hollows. I gaped at him in alarmed, confused disorder. I could only continue watching and feel myself, a figurative hourglass, being emptied out as he literally turned to sand and slipped through my fingers. I woke up with tears already clinging to my lashes.

Rising unsteadily from the chair, deflated and pained, I walked to the bed in the corner of the room. Curling myself up under the thin, rumpled bed sheet, I drifted into a cold, uncomfortable sleep, praying once more for death to come and steal me away.

Flashback

Idris: It happened at the school carnival. It happened while she rode the bumblebee and I rode the squirrel on the carousel. She had – not for the first time that day – an unfocused gaze, chewing her bottom lip while she figured something out in her head. Becoming suddenly aware that she’d been subjected to my observation, her serious, expressively thoughtful look transformed into one that was lighthearted, playful, and spirited. In that instant, something in my brain’s chemistry changed: I fell in love with her. It was a familiar sensation though I’d never had it before. In her face was an expression that recognized both the persistence and the tenuousness of life, one that made me question whether there was a point to anything humans did. Breathing, time, wealth – they all seemed fragile suddenly, and I didn’t want my quickly fleeting life to go on without her in it forever. I wanted us to spend what little time we had left on earth together until we arrived at inevitable nothingness.

We were seventeen years old, and she was the only thing that made sense to me, not only in that moment but persistently before and past that moment. That simple look revealed something to me; we’d known each other from existence, and I knew I loved her ever since, but it seemed that, until that exact instant, I hadn’t ever known that I’d been in love with her. Her smile promised that all our days would be spent in calm contentment. Navin always had that far off look about her. A quiet Navin was a Navin lost in thought, miles away, building up toward her next big realization, her next success. I was simply proud and honored to be part of her purposeful journey, knowing she’d never give up on her grandest goals. I aspired to match her ambition and focus.

Later, I fell deeper in love over our shared biscotti or rather over her slapstick attempt to snap it in half. It was her wince that did it for me – a flinch that showed humorous dread and silent begging for the crumbs to not explode all over her face, her fingers, and the table. This goofball would continue to amuse me to no end and make all my days exciting. She was the opposite of me – engaging, accessible, a dreamer.

If I was honest with myself, I fell in love with her in the ninth grade and kept my mouth shut about my feelings, because I had a long-distance girlfriend and she had a jealous boyfriend. We were an impossibility, one that made us drift a little more each day, until we barely spoke besides discussing school work or what we did over the weekend, despite sharing a locker and a few of the same classes.

In final year, my girlfriend cheated. She begged and blubbered for forgiveness, but I broke up with her. I’d never been so torn up, though I didn’t regret ending things. The next day at school was the first time Navin saw me cry. She comforted me with a hand on my shoulder. Within a few weeks, the hurt subsided, and I grew to hate my ex. That’s when feelings for Navin returned with full force. When we spoke, she focused her attention on me, like I was the only person in the room. My shy, contrary eyes wandered over everything and everyone else but her; afraid my dilated pupils would expose my feelings.

On the last day of high school, while I got started on clearing out our shared locker, I noticed Navin casting glances at me from Lucasta’s across the hall. When she came over, she hugged me. The suddenness and my nervousness about touching her, knowing she had a boyfriend, made me rigid but, cautiously, I hugged her back. She didn’t let go for a long time. While she held on, she told me she was sad to be leaving school. It was her second home, and she would miss it. I’m gonna miss you so much, she said into my shoulder. Her hot breath made me shiver. Me too, Nav.

How would things unfold between us when I went away for undergrad and lived on campus while she stayed back in Bear Garden? I finally told her about my decision to go. She encouraged me to pursue my passions. If I could, I’d travel farther from this place, I confessed. She shared the same dream, but said she needed to think about securing her future finances first, chuckling as she admitted her belief that academia was overrated. She liked my dreams and said she wished she could live in them. There was a glint in her eyes when she chose not to clarify the ambiguous statement, making me unsure whether she was flirting or being supportive. She asked me if I had my eyes on anyone new yet.

I took an unreasonably long time to ask Who wants to know?

Me, silly.

Too late for that anyway. Won’t be seeing any of these people after today.

So that’s a no?

Pretty much.

She was surprised. She said a boy like me, as tender and sweet as she thought me to be, couldn’t possibly need to wait before the next girlfriend came along. I hoped she wouldn’t see the sorrow in my smile. People can always tell when you’re sad, no matter how big or how often you laugh. Mental chatter has a distinct look. Pain and longing have distinct scents. I imagine they’re musty, like clothes that haven’t been worn in a long time.

She asked me if I wanted to be her prom date. She smiled widely as she asked, almost as if she was prepared to save face by saying she meant it as a joke, if I should turn down her offer. I could sense her nervousness beginning to surface the longer I kept her waiting, as I tried to figure out whether she meant it. Her cheeks turned pink and her grin and confidence wavered as an anxious glimmer shone unsteadily in her dark eyes.

You serious? Going to prom together was our original plan, one we made years before, when she was briefly single and my girlfriend was on the other side of the world and thus out of the question. When she met her jealous boyfriend and he eventually learned of our promise to each other, he angrily made her break it, insisting she go with him instead. So we compromised – he’d be her date, and she’d save a dance for me.

Yes. We broke up.

Relief. Optimal ecstasy. Is this Heaven? This is Heaven. Then yes.

In the midst of celebrating our new victory, she told me Sunset Pie, the poem she’d authored for an English assignment, was dedicated to me. I didn’t know I could inspire a piece of art. Only after reading it did I understand that she’d been observing me – as I’d hoped she would be – the night she attended a birthday party at my Uncle’s diner where I sometimes helped on weekends.

SUNSET PIE

When the evening sky was a dusty, blushing shade of pink

Blended smoothly with a fulsome, bleached orange,

I craved a pastry that I’d never learned the name of.

It once danced on my tongue,

And though I never had it again,

The flavor stayed with me.

Every time the sky found itself in that particular

Two-tone arrangement of mellow dyes, I could taste it.

Not yet tart but almost lemony.

Dulcet, nutty, sweet, crumbly, chewy. Mild, yet honeyed.

It was ambrosia, sun, butter, and thin layers of deprivation.

Just the remembrance of such a commanding experience

Excited my palate, set my core in flight.

Kind of a half-baked response to a pastry, I know,

But there were other things;

Associated with that slice

Was the scent of his cologne when he set down the plate.

With a grin he refused to tell me the name of the scent.

I’ll have to keep coming to you to smell it then. He nodded.

And the broad ambiance of the diner party –

The glitter candles lit up in a row on the dessert table

Establishing the sprightly, poetic mood.

The multi-hued wrapping of all the surprises bursting out of him,

The snappy accommodation of his button-down shirt

When I touched his arm as I said goodbye at the end of the night.

His soft hair and young voice.

His playful, street-smart eyes, fed up from the

cynicism that came from easily diagnosing deception –

Torn timeworn maps, they often got him lost

In a distant thought or in the middle of a non-laugh

That I kept waiting to hear.

Its sound was pretty confrontations that roped me in.

His slender, capable hands. His full lips and sad mouth.

His politeness despite his fatigue.

The way he kept catching me staring at him.

The instant consciousness

That I didn’t even know his readiness, inclination,

Or what he was made of;

I didn’t know if I was a child or a young woman, but

The taste carried the memory of feeling I was enough

To be sought after.

I didn’t understand poetry, but when I read hers, I understood it all. I wanted to taste her. I wanted her to not only be curious about what I tasted like but also for her to show me her ravenousness and make me the object of her gluttony. With our exes out of the way and the subsequent rekindling of our intimacy, our phone calls went back to lasting for hours.

We had the most fun while we were together in person. When we were physically side by side, we could talk for hours or be comfortably silent. I liked to listen to her. She took her time speaking, painting vivid descriptions with her expansive, impressive vocabulary, never making me feel like I was missing out on any detail. Every time we spoke felt like it would be the last, so she needed to provide me with endless, engaging detail. When she asked me a question, I often began my response with a shy laugh, always insecure about her focusing absorbedly on me.

That summer, I relearned all the little things about her. Her favorite scent was the smoke that lingered after someone blew out candles. What scared her most about the future was not living a life that fulfilled her potential, talents, and skills and becoming a slave to money. If she had a friend that spoke to her in the same way she spoke to herself she would cut that person out of her life without a moment’s hesitation. I found this hard to reconcile with the sureness and control she conveyed. It happened relatively quickly, but I was told I’d earned her trust, which made me feel refined. I trusted her with my reputation, my property, my deepest convictions, my secrets, my life.

What a wholesome family I thought she belonged to. There’s no such thing, she said. All families are fucked up. Home doesn’t equate to warmth and unconditional love. Home is where you learn your values, morals, and beliefs… as dark and twisted as they might be. We both wished we hadn’t known the pain of separated or feuding parents or the sad sounds of their sighs. We admitted to having given up on discovering a happiness that wasn’t of our own making until we met each other.

When I asked her months later what compelled her to ask me to be her prom date, she said there was nothing noble in the guys at school and that she valued integrity, the lack of guile, and humility, which were all ‘etched into my face.’ There was no one else she wanted to spend prom with and, if I declined, she wouldn’t have gone. I convinced myself not to let her confession and innocent yet perhaps planned flirting get to me. She corroborated her reason by explaining that she liked how I wasn’t one to involve myself in conflict and she was drawn to that, because given the constant fighting in her house, she couldn’t endure even healthy debate. It made her want to physically run away, which she often did albeit in her own car.

Sometimes she’d come to my place, and I’d drop whatever I was doing to watch TV with her for a few hours while she ignored her parents’ calls and until she felt like going back home. Sometimes we’d park in empty lots under the moon, hidden by the pines. We’d recline the seats and have deep conversations about our ever-changing versions of the lives we wanted, our fingers occasionally drumming to the rock music playing softly in the background when they weren’t intertwined. Her skin was so soft, I wanted to dissolve into her. She liked to wrap her fingers around the thin chain I wore and gently pull me in to her for a kiss.

For the first time in my life, I was able to maintain eye contact while I spoke, all because she trained me; as soon as my eyes wandered, she gently turned my face toward her. When I was finally able to look into her eyes, I could gaze at her for long stretches of time. She would break the silence by whispering, Let me have those eyes. They’re the biggest, deepest, saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

They’re only for you, I’d say.

Wanna hear me sing? she asked one evening while the two of us sat in front of her fireplace. We held hands, nestling into each other’s sides.

Absolutely, I turned to face her on the hearth.

I wrote it a few days ago.

She smoothed her side-swept bangs further off to the side like they were tickling her forehead and needed to be swatted away, though they’d made a lovely curtain of messy brown waves that framed her face delectably. She was elfin in contrast to her big house with twelve-foot ceilings and clunky traditional furniture.

Running her tongue across her cherry lips, she took a deep breath. Everything came to a grinding halt. Her voice had never been more alluring. It was brilliantly unusual and made me think of falling stars. There was nothing worldly about Navin and that’s what made her tempting, but then she sang, and I could hear the loneliness in her voice, and she became even more magnificently untouchable.

Navin confided in me that she often thought about running away seriously. ‘Not for a few hours. Forever.’ Even though she lived in an opulent house, she told me she didn’t belong to a real monumental home. Her parents were always fighting. Until she became my girlfriend, she didn’t believe in mutual love’s ability to last. When she was younger, her parents’ marriage seemed dazzling, flamboyant and expectant like fireworks. As she got older, she felt like she lived inside a constantly exploding volcano.

On good nights, she would sit at the top of the stairs as her parents sat in the living room talking over the low volume of the TV and laughing as her father lay with his head on her mother’s lap giving her a humorous account of his day’s incidents. She wanted to record those moments, because they never lasted long. I could relate. My parents separated when I was a child. It felt like my world came crashing down. I remembered sitting on their bed when they discussed it between themselves. I heard the word ‘divorce’ and buried my face in my hands, whimpering ‘You can’t do this to me!’ To my impatient father, I was an actor being theatrical. Idris, we’re not getting divorced, he snapped. A few days later, their decision to get a divorce was finalized. Utter betrayal. From that day on, I trusted no one. If my father, who should’ve provided me with emotional safety and security, could lie through his teeth then I was undoubtedly left to fend for myself in the world. I was terrified. Seeing my mother fall apart only heightened my fear. Where would we go? What would become of us?

Navin had felt entirely unlovable every time her father sighed in frustration and told her she had a lot of growing up to do. There was not a single person in her house that felt appreciated and that was the problem, she said. When Navin was twelve, her mother was taken to the hospital frequently. When she got older, her mother told her it was because of several miscarriages that she suffered after trying for a second child. Navin was sad for her parents, yet relieved. She believed it was a mercy that the babies hadn’t made it. No child deserved being born into the hell of their household, and that was why their lives were stopped in the womb. By high school, she already reached her breaking point and no longer spoke to her parents unless absolutely necessary. She couldn’t continue living under her father’s controlling, manipulative authority or her mother’s battered helplessness and dependence on Navin to fix the broken marriage.

In my imagination, we take off in my car, Navin said, moving in close again and putting my arm around her shoulder. I smiled, imagining the freedom of driving off in the early morning toward an unknown destination. We could restart existence from scratch. Let me fill all your emptiness, I wanted to say, but instead I kissed her temple. If I said the words, I would cry.

I love you, she said. And I’ll tell you why tomorrow.

Navin Seer, who couldn’t trust anyone, loved me. Navin, who had so much love to give but always held it in for fear of letting things get to the point where she was vulnerable and easy to abandon, loved me. I clenched my aching jaw to fight the tears.

Tomorrow?

Your birthday.

I had no idea which of my traits qualified me for being lovable, and I said as much to her. ‘You seriously don’t know?’ she said. ‘Look at you. How can you not know? You’re just being humble.’

I love you too, I said quickly and quietly. I wished she wouldn’t look at me, but she did. She turned to look directly at my watery eyes while I turned away from her, trying to control my poignant thoughts and prevent the tears from escaping, but the longer we sat together, the more intensely I loved her, and it killed me. No matter how often I told her, she wouldn’t truly understand the weight, height, or width of it. A tear rolled down my cheek. Followed by another. I turned away to hide my face, but she gently turned my cheek toward her.

Idris, she’d whispered, leaning her forehead against mine. When she said my name, I was the only thing in the world that she cared about. She whispered it sleepily when she slid in beneath me as I did pushups on the floor, smiling up at me as I rose and fell above her. She purred it when I held her cold toes to warm them up. She sighed it when she’d tiptoe up behind me and rest her head between my shoulder blades with her arms wrapped around my stomach.

Why are you crying? She kissed my face, transferring my tears to her lips.

I couldn’t answer. The feeling of being on the verge of losing her terrified me, and we originated from the same pain. When I could get a hold of myself, I wiped my tears and dried my palms on my jeans. Where would we go?

She smiled at the question, comforted that the tears were gone. Wherever you like, she said. I have no preference. I just wanna leave with you. She sighed. My whole life I’ve been this quiet, obedient daughter. Now I need to unleash this beast within, she said, making her eyes big.

She was convinced her absence wouldn’t make a difference to her family. I couldn’t imagine that ever being true. It wasn’t difficult to love Navin. She always wore a big, indisputable smile and greeted everyone like they were all individually her best friends. Her sense of calm was contagious.

I wished her parents could’ve known this Navin instead of the impatient side of her she couldn’t help but show them. They’d turned her softness into abrasion.

You must not be real, she said softly. I heard the shakiness in her voice.

Why do you say that? I bent my neck to kiss her shoulder.

I don’t think it’s physically possible to love another human this much. For someone to love me as much as you do, I mean. People always mess up. You never seem to though.

I do. I assure you. You just never do anything to inspire me to mess up.

No one needs to be inspired, if they’re naturally prone to it. That’s why I say you can’t be real. You’re too ideal.

I laughed softly.

I have these recurring nightmares, she said. "I’m trapped inside a house, screaming like I’m being tortured, but no one hears me. My ghost watches me from outside the house. It sees its reflection in the window. It looks well but vacant, lost in curiosity about the inside me. I’ve been analyzing this with my dream dictionary, and what I’ve come up with so far is that, in my waking life I’m trying to communicate with my family, but no one listens. There’s also a man who has your black hair and your walk. I feel like it is you. You come to rescue me. My ghost watches as you hear my screams and run inside the house to get me out. I think this part is my reality – that I feel safest with you. When we escape from the house, I tell you that I screamed because I saw my own ghost, then you and I realize I’ve been dead for a long time. I tell you that my ghost was cradling a bundle of twigs like they were a baby. It’s always late afternoon in the summer."

INTERPRET

Spreading clear, sticky words across my lips

Wishing I could be bolder and more direct

Sick of being subtle all the time

Sick of being angry all the time

Wringing out my blood-stained jacket

In the hopes that my mistakes

Are only skin deep and reversible

Giving my blood

And watching it leave through bursts

Literally break open, exploding to share myself

To contribute to myself, distribute myself, carve

And divide me

Washing dishes

Stacking them I prioritize

Hunger for life and

Lifelong hunger

On empty plates, serving you my emotional void

Always the same dreams

Stuck in a rut

My reflection in a window

Feeling left out

New house, unused furniture

Houses I don’t recognize

Strange bathrooms that I necessarily always shower in

Big and empty

Too many rooms

All of them luxurious

Windows open

Breezes blowing

Paper scattered on the floors

Books about a mouse named House

Wanting to revert to childhood

Though even then happiness had always

Been snatched away.

I took a moment to recall what it could all mean. "Well, twigs are like branches, and I know branches usually represent relationships, because trees usually symbolize family trees. Could it mean that you’re trying to either salvage or break off ties with certain family members? Maybe you want to escape from your house, which feels like a graveyard to you – hence the ghost – and you look to me as your savior because you believe that we could lead a safe life together. As for the afternoon, if you see the sun shining clearly, it’s usually a good sign. It can represent clarity and fortune. And peace."

Makes sense, she said, Given our dream to run away. Together.

We sat silently, staring into the fire. Her expressive eyes always looked like they were brimming over with consideration for me, communicating her devotion to me as if, whenever she listened to me speak, she empathized with me and admired every letter that I poured forth, even if it made no sense or sounded unripe and juvenile.

In her eyes, I could do absolutely no wrong. And though her unspoken wish placed a lot of pressure on me to live up to such a high standard, I wanted to do that for her. All she had to do was look at me in her softly distinctive way and her eyes asked a million questions that differed with the situation. They said ‘I’m sorry that that unkind person used that tone with you. I’m sure it was unintended.’ And ‘Are you comfortable?’ And ‘I’m in bliss sharing this moment with you.’ And the chronic expression, the one that haunted me the most, whispered a narrative of abandonment.

Navin was stunning. I didn’t know why anyone would want to abandon her. She confided in me once that sometimes she wished she couldn’t fall in love because it was such an intense experience for her that it made her constantly tearful. She feared that the love would be snatched away from her, like the first time she went to an all-ages nightclub and there were candies in the ladies’ room that she assumed were free. The washroom attendant pried them out of her hand and said, You have to pay for it.

After University, Navin, who’d resisted the experience of stir-crazy suffocation that came with being alone in a cubicle, wound up working in an office environment. She joked that she’d become a slave to money after all. She was miserable and unfulfilled doing the work, but she urgently needed the money to save up for her two dreams: her own chocolate business and her own place, where she could finally breathe easily instead of always holding her breath listening for sounds of her parents’ fighting.

The time we met was a time of innocence. It quickly grew to a distracting desperation. Navin could be likened to a drug addict – her remedy of choice: escape. She was always talking about running away. Every time we spoke, it was the topic of discussion. She told me it was her favorite subject matter. I had no doubts that it was. Her presence became eerie, like there would be a loud bang that only she’d be able to hear, and it would make her bolt, never to return. She wasn’t fully present. She was insatiable, hungry for freedom. It was tangible, like cattails bending in the breeze – the image I’d associated with loneliness when my father left us, and I found solace in standing on our lake house dock for hours staring off into the distance past the cattails on the water. I fantasized about rowing off into the distance for a life of freedom and adventure and, most of all, a life free of emotional soreness. I worried about my mother, but sometimes I blamed her for contributing to the disintegration of our family and I wanted to leave her as a punishment.

It worried me that Navin might start wanting freedom from our relationship too. My worries soon materialized. She made the first move to break up though I tried hard – though I cried hard – to change her mind. I was so wrecked for days afterward that I hallucinated her face everywhere, especially in the faces of the young mothers that came to pick up their children from the dojos where I taught martial arts in town. I spent most of my time there. I appreciated its healthy distraction, but it quickly became Navin’s haunt. I saw the ghostly apparition of her face for a split second as I taught, as I waited for my students to vacate the premises, as I locked up, and as I drove home in silence.

I was in the ice cream parlor where we hung out on lazy summer days back in high school. Our song was playing on the radio. Like telepathy, she called me right then. I miss your voice, she said, then began to cry. I think I made a mistake.

Nav, come back, I pleaded.

Really? She sounded incredulous. I thought you’d be mad at me.

Never. Don’t ever think like that. I only love you. I want you to be only mine. You need to be with me. No matter what.

I love you.

"I love you. I hope you’ve had enough time to know what you really want."

Her nose was stuffy. "I know what I want. When we’re not together,

there’s no order in my life."

Do you know I’ve seen you in my dreams every single night? They’re incredible to the point I can’t even describe.

***

Your skin is the colour of Honey Roasted Almonds. You look adorably helpless in my arms. You take care of me like I’m your child. You make me feel deliciously delicate. You’re an excellent cook. You’re a loyal friend. Though you’re the only husband I’ve ever had, I know you’re the best I ever could have. You bring me a sense of calm, sanity, encouragement, and focus. We never get sick of each other. You make me laugh out loud. You have poetic eyes. You have fabulous taste in music. I can’t take my eyes off you. You think highly of everything about me and allow me to feel comfortable in my own skin.

"Only a few of the reasons" Navin said excitedly every time she gave me a birthday card. There were lists in every card since the summer after high school. This one was from my twenty-fifth. I hadn’t realized there was a tear rolling down my cheek until it splashed onto the blue ink. I quickly dabbed the card dry and studied the funny cover before slipping it back into the duffel bag full of my Navin treasures.

I missed her laugh lines, the soft scent of her forehead when I kissed it, the way her button nose looked sharp in profile, the mountain range contour of her lips, and the way the scent of baby powder lingered on her after she changed Layla. I’d grabbed the baby powder from Layla’s changing table that day, when I couldn’t think straight about much else. Another selfish move.

I tucked the bag into the back of my closet where it remained hidden by my hanging pant legs. Under no circumstances could the bag see the light of day when Noor was in the house. It only came out on nights when Noor was already in bed and I was alone in my home study. On nights when I missed Navin desperately even after sixteen years had passed since I’d made the decision to part from her and had begun a new family. On nights when the darkness of my deed was oppressive and it was hard to exhale, because I missed her so deeply that it weighed me down, and everyone around me could tell something was on my mind, though I denied it if they asked.

Looking through the items and reminiscing hadn’t ever felt like infidelity toward Noor; it only felt like my memories of Navin might be tainted if anyone saw the remnants of the past life I’d shed. The red gym bag securely enclosed sanctified pictures of our wedding day, of everyday high school goings-on, of semi-formal, prom, and dates, of group outings with our friends, and of dinner parties. Even as friends in high school, we never walked without linking arms, always reaching for the other’s waist, clinging tightly like we were joined at the hip.

I missed the inside jokes, the looks of longing, thinking about each other the entire day, talking on the phone from the moment we woke up to the moment we saw each other later and then again once I dropped her off at home after a date until we went to sleep. As a new husband, I couldn’t take my mind off her at work, constantly distracted by the urge to gather and throw all the papers at my desk into the air and run back home to be with her. We never tired of each other. We loved every moment of doing everything and nothing.

If I’d learned one thing about myself in our sixteen years apart, it was what our friend Nazanin always said: there are no absolutes with humans. It was said in the context of a religious discussion we’d been having one evening when she came over to see our new home, but nevertheless it rang true. Every drastic personal decision and fluctuating belief was a matter of perception coloured by our earlier individual experiences. Sometimes I hoped Navin would remember that and forgive me in view of the understanding that people often grew in ways that were immeasurable and bottomless. Everyone needed time to figure themselves out without necessarily always knowing how to ask for that time.

Often, I fell asleep crying at my desk thinking about Navin’s insecurities. Those were the most heartbreaking. She had no idea how beautiful and faultless she was. What have I done? Did I think it through? Is this what I wanted for our future? Had I considered my decision to leave from all angles? Most importantly, is it irreversible? I’d ask myself these torturous questions repeatedly until I could no longer think and my mind was numbed by a need to fall into a deep slumber.

Often, I’d wake to blinding sunlight blasting almost noisily into my study. Sometimes to a neck ache from sleeping hunched over. I’d been asked once – though the question always loomed around me – if I’d been depressed, because of my worrisome trend of often falling asleep at my desk overnight and waking up with puffy, red eyes or dark under eye circles. On several occasions, my new family could’ve sworn that I’d been crying and had repeatedly asked me if I had been. The only answer to that, though I hadn’t been entirely positive about it, was, What? What reason do I have to cry? What a question. For my children to ask me this, to know that my darkness made them feel dark, deflated me. Like a reprimanded child, I sank into the seat asking myself whether I truly was depressed. Most times my desperate need for Navin was the reason: I had already given up my first and best friend as well as my first life – but ironically not my best life.

Still in my study, I slowly opened my eyes and adjusted them to the darkness of the room in which I’d sat after dinner to meditate and lose track of time. I glanced at the time and date on the glowing green call display. September 1st. The date that always stopped my heart. Layla’s birthday. Who’d have known that seventeen years ago I’d make love with an honorable woman, the prettiest in our high school, and have an immaculate manifestation of that love to show for it? Or that I’d end up being the kind of father my own father had been to me: absent. I’d known that pain, yet I’d inflicted it on my own child, whom I’d promised to protect the moment Navin told me we were pregnant. Where was my child now? Did Navin speak of me? Did Layla ask about me? Was her life in shambles the way mine was when my father walked out? By my calculations, she was starting her first day of twelfth grade. Every year on her birthday, I prayed for her happiness, for her to be a good girl like her mother had always been, for her to forget about me, for her to still love me. How were my two precious jewels sustaining themselves?

Like all the times I’d trained myself not to say exactly what I was thinking, only to have my words escape on their own before I even realized I had spoken, I had bought a spontaneous one-way ticket. My escape was final, only it was merely a physical escape, not the mental escape I needed. If our love had been a novel, a reader criticizing it would say our ending was way too sudden. She might have reread that part a couple times to make sure she wasn’t misunderstanding, thinking ‘But they were in love and then… a couple of vague lines—’ – a vague decade later – ‘—and they’re done? And what’s going on?’

WHAT THE HELL?

Annoyed that she draws

Pictures on frosty windows,

He wipes her away.

Carefully stepping on the mostly creaky floorboards so as not to wake everyone up, I walked to the closet in my study and gingerly pulled out the thin photo album from inside the duffle bag and flipped it open. The first picture was one I’d taken of Navin standing with her back to me in front of our bedroom balcony parting the sheer white curtains as walked through them. She looked over her shoulder at me just as I clicked the shutter button.

Seeing Navin in her nightgown every morning, standing on our bedroom balcony with her back to me, her hair floating in the morning North wind made me want to never leave that place. It made me want to grow into roots and dig myself into the earth under her feet to grow up and around her. Twisting around her delicate feet, her smooth calves, her soft belly and arms, her slender neck, her silky curls. Inhaling her soft powder scent was like lying in a square of sunlight. She would walk over to me and lay on my chest, looking up at me.

7 DEADLY SINS

We belong only, fitting in only, to us.

Feel right held together.

By gelatinous, insatiable humidity.

Hidden, settled in a single bed for full days.

Looking out at the rest of the world

With green-tinted glasses

Not wanting to split,

For, if they should tarnish or twist you,

My pride, they will feel

The slow burn of the conniption.

We leave this life repeatedly

To pierce the walls of an ironic Heaven.

We break off from our kiss slowly. I gently take her warm face in both my cool hands. I want you to be the mother of my children, I say.

She smiles tantalizingly. Why is that?

I think you’ll be a good one.

What makes you think that?

The way you look at me. The way you love me. I just know. When you kiss me, I have absolute knowledge of everything. I suddenly know the answer to unsolved math problems and what consciousness is. Prime numbers make sense. I have the cure to cancer. Time travel seems very possible.

She laughs again and smiles mischievously. There’s only one way to find out. She pulls the cotton bed sheet up around us, letting it float down around our waists.

I woke up to a gentle rapping on my home office door. I had fallen asleep at my desk again, lucid dreaming not for the first time that day. They were becoming more vivid around that time and the question of why that might’ve been bothered me incessantly. I experienced constant dread and guilt but for whom I did not know.

The memories of us didn’t always come clearly, but when they did, they landed on my chest like a heavy bird landing violently on a thin tree branch, rustling all my leaves, leaves that had been still for so long I’d forgotten they were there at all. I’d forgotten I had that many. Leaves, like skeletons, propped up in a corner of my dark, unopened closet, gathering dust and sliding down to the ground with neglect.

DESTINATION DESIGNATION

When the ride’s over

I hope you’ll never regret

Saying you crave me.

2

HARDENING A DARKENED GARDEN

Navin: The final memory that roused me from my sleep, the one that was always fresh and that always stung, was of the last time I saw him: This can’t be it. This isn’t how we do things around here. How can this be the end? Is this how he wants to leave things? On this note? We’ve been through too much for him to let it go. How can he throw it all away? Why is he wasting all our efforts and time and love?

Before I realized it, I was running across the lawn, oblivious to the bitter cold and the fact that I wasn’t adequately clothed, calling to him through my sobs, tugging on his coat sleeve to stop him from boarding the bus, maniacally begging him not to go. The driver and the passengers must have looked at us in alarm, their faces frozen in confusion and nervousness. Perhaps they were unsure if we were acting or if they should alert the authorities.

I’d been in that position once myself, skipping class in high school to play pool with some friends. Driving down a busy street, we’d seen a man charging toward a woman, head first, and the woman grab his head and slam it into one of the walls of a telephone booth.

Where are we right now? I had demanded my friend who was driving us. He hadn’t known either. My heart pounded with fear and confusion.

I’m calling the cops.

Everyone in the car was silent. I looked to him for approval, but he calmly looked ahead as he tried to weave through traffic.

I should, shouldn’t I? I had asked again.

Ignore it, he said.

I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t wanted me to report the incident, but too shaken up by the scene I’d lost my voice anyway. I’d regretted not making the call ever since.

Idris had gotten on the bus. It had pulled away. My mouth slack, my throat parched, I stared in disbelief, as the bus drove off. I stumbled back to the house. Before closing the door, I’d already collapsed in a heap on the cold tiled floor of the foyer, gripping my head like if I didn’t it would unscrew itself and fall off. When I could finally move and make sense of my surroundings, I’d called Lucasta.

Luc… was all I managed to say haltingly before I ruptured into tears again.

Nav? she panicked. I could hear her vigorously pressing the phone’s volume button so she could hear me clearly. What happened?

He’s gone.

My voice came out in sobs so deep they sounded like hiccups. I realized it seemed like I was calling with a death announcement. She didn’t need clarification, but she asked anyway.

"Who’s gone?" The alarm was already building up in her tone.

Idris. I snuffled. I hyperventilated. He left, I told her.

Where’d he go? Did you guys have a fight?

When I didn’t – or couldn’t – say anything else, she said she would be right over. She closed our shop even though it was approaching the busiest hour of the day, especially for the season. Within ten minutes, she was at my house. She used the key I’d given her for emergencies and found me sitting and crying in Layla’s nursery. She hugged me for a long time.

He’ll be back, she assured me, rubbing my back as if to rub out the painful knot he left in my chest.

I don’t know, I dabbed my eyes with the