Mark reclined on the couch, smoking one cigarette after another, sipping coffee for hours, and gazing at the drawing of Pagliacci on the wall. His senses didn’t take in much else in the room. There was TV and his music, but he never thought to turn those on anymore.
She didn’t know if he even realized that he was staring, for hours, at the drawing. His mind seemed only half there most of the time. The phone would ring and he would pick up, confused as to who he was talking to, and why. He would look at her helplessly and hand her the receiver. He’d already detached from this life, knowing he was on his way out. He didn’t cry about it anymore, or fight it, or complain. He just kept smoking and gazing at Pagliacci.
Later, when he was gone, she kept some of his music, all of his books, and the drawing. It reminded her of the dark and hurting days, but it also gave her a kind of peace and comfort she could not and did not try to explain.
Martha
August 13, 2011
