Shadows

Literary Review, Spring, 2004 by Brendan Short

"That was a lovely walk we had earlier," I say, finally.

"It was, dear. Just lovely."

"We are good friends."

She smiles. "We are, dear. We are."

"We understand each other."

She glances to the side and then back at me.

"Yes, dear. We do. We certainly do."

"We're practically family."

"I couldn't agree more."

I pretend that we know each other and are too polite to point out the faults. I pretend that neither of us has lost or denied anything essential.

Mrs. Waller sits on the couch in her darkening apartment, looking frail and helpless, humming a song I don't know. She is alone, without even memory for company. Wordlessly, I walk past her. As quietly as I can, I lock the door behind me, then head down the stairs. Most likely she has already forgotten me.

After waiting a few minutes for the bus, I look up at Mrs. Waller's window and see that I have forgotten to draw the blinds. I step toward the building but stop when I hear my bus approach. My job is done, I tell myself. It is best to forget, to leave bits of myself behind.

I pay the driver, find a seat, and look up to see Mrs. Waller in her window, touching fingertips to the glass. When the bus moves, I press my hands to the window and turn my head to keep her in my sight. She is there, but then she quickly disappears.