Have you considered solitude?
Tate’s autumnal habit had become a year-long practice due to the stresses of his work life. He’d started smoking in his teens because he found a poetry in watching smoke meet the cool air of the Fall. He always felt smoking, from a literary standpoint, looked much more attractive if you were bundled up; as if the cancerous tobacco stick was the sieve by which you dragged life into your lungs. He’d grown less sentimental over the years when he realized that smoke was smoke and more often than not, it was the by-product of slowly poisoning yourself.
Antoinette and Tate had not parted well; from behind the cobwebs that softened the harshest of memories, he could always remember the wave of her hair as she turned to leave him; it was a violent wave, a tsunami of Chanel no. 5 and seething that he’d never forget, as long as he lived. He stared out over the hospital grounds at dawn, replaying her hair over and over, feeling the very aura of her on his skin.
He had always believed that he’d been born with an apology in his mouth; he also believed that he’d spent it by now, but was always shown how wrong he’d been.
I’m sorry for being broken before I got a chance to begin, Dad.
I’m sorry you had to die, Mom.
I’m sorry that I’m not who you expected when you saw me, but I’m much more than a chair.
I’m an asshole, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I have cancer, I’m going to probably go out like my mother before me.
I’m sorry I had a mental breakdown for it, but I’m still writing. I’m still working from chemo/rehab.
I’m sorry, it’s the best I have in me.
Overall, none of these were the apology he was born to give, the one that lived under his tongue. He flicked the butt of his cigarette out and over the railing, contemplating another. He fiddled with his lighter, watching his medical bracelet tremor around his wrist. He silently wished that Ann would come and find him, that she was a better person than he was. That somewhere on this planet, her mind told her something was not right. That she was running on those red-soled heels back to him, probably to slap him but he knew he deserved it. He wanted her back; he’d made a mistake. He needed her now more than ever.
“I miss you Ann…” he told the pre-winter chill as it danced over his face and his hair, which was jut beginning to fall out. He was going to look terrible bald; his ears were too big to make it look anything but comical. He decided against the second cigarette, putting hands to push rims and heading back into his room. He’d paid extra for solitude, and it helped when he was working. Mostly, he realized how alone he was now. And it left a stale and sickly film on the top of his tongue and the back of his throat.
The worst time of year was coming up, pulling up into the parking lot she tapped her hands on her steering wheel staring out the window for a few moments. Turning off the warm air circulating in her car, sighing while she pulled on her gloves.
The last time she really spoke to him, was well that incident and her heart sank along with her body. Resting her head on the steering wheel, all the memories flooded back. After all this time, that whole argument was, stupid. She could barely remember what they were angry about, she was the one who probably caused it. When her heart sank into her stomach, she could feel the acid crawl up making her throat burn. Regret just pooled in her mouth, this all could have easily been avoided.
Gathering up the courage, she pulled her gloves on and took in a deep breath stepping out of the car and taking the longest walk of her life to the Hospital. She couldn’t believe he was here, rotting away behind cold walls. She could only imagine him going insane. A mutual friend of theirs told her where he was, and she felt obligated to see him, well, not obligated. She wanted to see him, she wanted to see him smile, and laugh like he always did.
Cursing under her breath she immediately wiped her face, walking up to the front desk meeting eyes with the woman behind the desk.
“Hi, uhm, Tate Bowen’s room?” She said in a sort of sheepish tone while the nurse seemed to look right through her.
“He’s not really expecting visitors,”
“Oh. Well, I’m certain you can make an exception for me can’t you?” The blonde tried smiling but it was shot down with just a sort of icy stare. “Right, I guess I’m just going to thrash in every room until a find him then,” Standing up straight again the blonde was about to take a step before the nurse stood up quickly. Antoinette raised her eyebrows, “Room?”
“201.”
“That wasn’t so hard was it,” Scrunching up her nose with a smug sort of smile, she walked down the chilly hall and looked at the door. Wetting her lips a bit, she took in a deep breath, throat closing up she just shrugged it off then rapped on the door with her knuckles a few times. Opening the door slowly, giving him a chance to react first before she stepped in.
“I hope you’re decent,”
Tate’s heart froze, the rigidity spanning outward into all of his muscle tissue. He quietly bemoaned the lack of proper locks on hospital doors, knowing that the privacy he’d been ruminating upon not moments before was not really all that sacred. The voice was not expected, merely dreamed upon and therefore shocked him so utterly, that it took him a moment before he could speak.
He was altered, the chemotherapy having lead his body to general wasting and the inability to maintain appetite or keep food down. The hair was going to start going, but he was pleased she’d arrived before that ship had sailed. He took in her form, as wonderful as he remember. He longed to reach out and take her hand, but he still wouldn’t move.
“Ann.” he seemed to state, as if announcing her to the gentry of a bygone court, “ I wasn’t expecting...” What? Her, anyone at all? Both were correct. He just wasn’t sure what to make of this cosmic shift.
