An Agent of Pathos

Belle was lying on her side in a ball. The green satin sheet decapitated her below the neck. Her dark hair fell inanimately upon the pillowcase and slid beneath her twisted shoulders. Daniel stopped for a moment to look at her, watching each rise and fall of her chest as she respired. Had he never lost the feeling, that ineffable heat that struck him when he first saw her walking across the yellow, wilted August grass, things may have felt different. Daniel loved her instantly; he knew that he should and never questioned why. But this was not that distant past. In the gap between being naïve enough to surrender to someone without a premeditated defense and the salve of middle age, adulthood had built edifices to their mutual sins that obstructed his recollection of pleasant memories. This night, he saw Belle as she was.

The moonlight was floating through the open window, gently bathing her tan summer skin in a juxtaposition of pale blue light. Her face released a sort of midnight glow, ethereal but dull. The curtains flapped gently as they moved under the force of a humid breeze. Through the rectangular panes of glass, Daniel could see the valley and the shimmering highlights of the lake, the jagged silhouette of rocky peaks in the distance, and the panoply of stars in the sky. There was ambiance all around.

It was quite a wonderful night.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it onto the chair in front of her vanity, being as careful as possible not to make any unnecessary noise, trying to be adroit in the darkness. He did the same with his pants then slowly stabbed his feet into the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his body.

In a voice that was much more breath than sound, he heard the words, “Daniel, what's going on? What time is it? You're really late.”

“I know,” he replied, “I'm sorry.”

“Will you tell me now?”

"When you're more awake.”

"Daniel, I really just want to know.” Her eyes were still closed. She had fought this battle before and knew the forthcoming outcome, yet she still felt compelled to try.

"Tomorrow morning.”

She sighed. “Then hold onto me for a minute so I can go back to sleep.”

He wrapped his forty-two year-old arms around her waist and pulled her body backwards into his stomach.

The night was quite wonderful.

When the morning light broke through the darkness, Daniel had not closed his eyes. His pillow was wet. He would turn it over to hide the evidence. His arms were still around Belle. She still slept soundly. He had no intention of waking her. Let her dream, let her rest; let her be free of everything. He wished he could be.

The fan chattered over his head and cast oblong streaks of shadow across the ceiling. The red tint of sunrise smothered the room. Refracted light from the early dawn made the darkness retreat into a fuzzy state where things were approaching visibility in the authenticity of full color. He tried to follow a single blade of the fan through its rotation, keeping it in clear focus. When he locked his vision on a dark wooden board, it would speed away and blur with the motion of the others, twirling at a pace too quick for his gaze to separate it from other movement.

Daniel glanced around at the humble country furnishings that decorated the room. There was her dark oak armoire and mirror, his nightstand, the wooden floor, the picture of her mother and father on the wall, his closet door, her closet door, and the large window with lacy drapes that had settled along with the wind. Belle loved the curtains. She said it made the room look feminine, like something pretty lived inside.

He leaned over as far as his position would permit, withdrew his arms from their connection to Belle's body, and escaped the sheets.

In the shower, he found no comfort. The hot water seemed to momentarily thaw his mind but his thoughts ran together like melted snow. His whole life, he thought; it was his whole life. Now was his whole life already. What should he feel? Angry? Frightened? Melancholy? Lonely? Confused? Morose? Weak? Disposable? Alive? Dead? He did. He felt it all, alone in the shower.

It was Saturday. Every Saturday morning Daniel walked down the steep valley behind the log cabin that he and Belle called home, hiked for several miles, sat down on the hillside, and breathed the mountain air. That was all he wanted to do, he just breathed. It made him seem so far away from everything, from the honking horns, from the bills, from the sickness, from the war, from the world. The diversion was never more necessary than this morning.

He was hoping that he could sneak out of the house before Belle woke. He couldn't. Twenty years of cohabitation had programmed her with the prescience necessary to intercept him. She sat at the kitchen table in her pink bathrobe with frizzy hair waiting for his entrance into the room.

“Will you tell me yet?” she asked without looking at him. “Just tell me.”

He said nothing immediately. Belle raised her head. She had aged gracefully. Her eyes were a cavernously dark shade of brown, still capable of swallowing him entirely.