The cool grass nested him, comfort beneath his form. It would itch later, but now it seemed to hold him aloft above the Earth. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, he luxuriated in the silver rays of the radiant Moon. It was in its perfect form, full and the most brilliant white. Three miles from town, he lacked light pollution and the stars shone brightly, as always, beckoning to him; secretly inviting him. It was how every night should be experienced.
He refused to believe the stars were only orbs of gas burning bright enough to be seen all these miles distant. Science couldn't explain the stars, they were above the limits of science. No, he didn't believe in astrology, but he knew knew knew knew that the stars held their own secrets.
Katrina appeared in his vision, standing at his head looking down into his eyes. She had finally returned from work, she was closing the store a lot lately, and in just another six hours she would be waking up to go to class.
She wore a blanket around her shoulders covering her entire form. No words were said. She lay down next to him throwing the blanket over both of them, revealing only panties and a t-shirt underneath. She nestled into him and fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. He had been an insomniac before Katrina but now could always sleep when she was there. A magical effect all previous girlfriends had lacked. Unconsciousness pulled at him and he slept in a zone of comfort he prayed daily would never go away.
-
He remember that night, that night and all the other nights and the days they'd been together, laying in the bed staring at the hospital ceiling; his fingers idly strumming the acoustic guitar laying on his chest. The patient he shared the room with had been released that morning and had not been replaced, so now he could play at night, though he wasn't paying attention. His left hand lay on the bed after going slack and falling from the instrument's neck; the fingers of his right hand strummed the strings of their own accord unguided by their owner producing meaningless, uncoordinated notes, ignoring the conept of chords.
He remembered that night, that night and all the other nights and the days they'd been together, because she had come to visit that day. he had been sitting up and playing then, concentrating on reproducing a song he liked; watching peripherally a roommate he had never spoken to leave with his family and honestly wishing him well in an unspoken thought. He didn't know how long it had actually been, but it seemed like the door had just shut when it opened again.
He never looked up from his guitar when the nurses or doctors came in, or when his roommate's family came to visit, but he could feel her. He felt her the moment she was outside his door. He had thought he was over her, but then he looked up.
She was still as beautiful as she had been that night, that night back in college when he lived with a buddy in the country and unofficially she lived in his room. Her gorgeous black hair was still the same, cut neck short with her bangs brushed to the sides to fram her face. She shut the door behind herself and that small hospital room became the only world he knew.
"I came as soon as I heard." She said, walking over and placing a hand on one of those small rails running the lengthof the bed. "My boss didn't like me taking off for so many days so suddenly on such a sketchy explanation, but once they told me what happened I dropped everything and came straight here."
He only nodded to acknowledge he ha heard her. 'They' were probably his family who had contacted her above all the other ex-girlfriends before or since Katrina, and 'they' had probably told her before telling his friends.
"Thank you," he replied evenly. "I'm happy you're here." Three days in that room and he was receiving his first visitor. His family had told him over the phone they would give time "to get settled in" before visiting or letting anyone outside the family iknow. They were trying to balance knowing he would want time alone to mope with wanting to give him all the support they could muster. Calling Katrina must have been their surprise attack to break down his walls.
-
Fuck them.
-
He was thankful she didn't react to the lie. Katrina knew him better than anyone and could always read what he meant in whatever he said. She could read "It hurst that you're here, please go way," and chose not to. Half of him wished she would, the other was relieved that she didn't.
"I'm really sorry it took something like this," she glanced ever so briefly at his legs. "They" must have told her the permanent effects. "For us to see each other after such a long time." She looked away from him to the floor, it hurt her to be here as much as it hurt him; he was understaning and appreciative. She had always been braver then himself. Stronger.
"It's not all your fault. It's not like I've been leaving messages on your answering machine or anything." Now he wished he had. Who knew what could have happened? He squelched that voice in the back of his head. False Hope was always the loudest.
"Well... I saw one of your painting in a gallery a few months ago." She wanted them to catch up on each other's lives; he was willing, but artists like him were a dime a dozen, a piece sold here, another there. "I couldn't find your signature, but no one else has your style." His signature had been his initials merged into one letter. He had stopped using it shortly after they had seperated.
"It was a girl, blind-folded with a night sky behind her - "
"Two hundred dollars." He broke her off. "I got two hundred dollars for that one. It's in Boston somewhere." He added stonily.
"Yes." She acceded quietly. "Boston."
"It's okay though, I've got a good job." He did. He wasn't stupid. He hadn't taken any art classes in college. "I work in marketing for Katz Industries. They're small software company in Chicago." He detested his job, and because it absorbed so much of his time, he detested his life. But he didn't have to tell her that. Katrina knew him better than anyone.
---
And that's where I left off. Incredibly I wrote this story pen-on-paper while serving in Baghdad with insomnia roughly two months before Hurricane Katrina even existed. I appreciated my own secret irony, as if God was drawing inspiration from my fiction(yes, I am blasphemous and arrogant enough to applaud myself this way) and the hurricane that demolished New Orleans was named for my character who had demolished a man's life.
Anyways, I've decided to try and finish this short story after being on hold for over two years.
CC5
Peace, One Love,
Snite
