Alone

          Finally she could breathe, think. The last week had taken its toll, but now she was alone. No well-meaning relatives patting her hand and hugging her waist as if death brought the living closer. No sympathetic friends telling her to call if she needed anything as if they really meant it. No sad-eyed minister asking how she’s doing as if he could read sorrow buried in every laugh line around her eyes. Now, maybe, the shock would wear off. Maybe now she could just think. The icy vodka tasted smooth on her tongue as she sipped it lazily and watched the early morning light throwing its reddish-golden hue across the yard.

            The silence felt good in her ears. She had spent the whole night, hell the whole week, talking about Michael and the years they had together, all 25 of them. By 2 a.m. the last of her friends had departed with a final toast to memories, and the ordeal was over. There was nothing left to do but keep the vodka cold and drink in – gulp down - the silence. For the first hour, she watched the stars twinkle coolly and traced the lights of a few passing jets. She wondered where they headed and who they carried. People who were running away from their lives, running toward their futures, or just running through their time, she decided. At 4 a.m. she realized she hadn’t even taken off her black patent leather pumps yet and remedied that with an easy grace. By 5 a.m. the voices of birds had replaced those of crickets and the subtle lightening in the sky heralded the morning. At 6 a.m. she realized it was time to get ready for work, but she wasn’t going today. She wasn’t going until next week, if she ever went at all. No, this morning she was just going to think about her new freedom.

            What should she do? Should she move? Should she stay? Should she buy a different house? Should she sell the extra car? Should she take a vacation? Where should she go? Interestingly enough, the answers didn’t matter as much as the fact that she could decide. She loved Michael dearly. They had been very happy together, and for the last 25 years they had made their decisions together. They had raised a daughter together. They had moved and worked and saved and vacationed together. It had been grand. The cruises, the trips to Europe, the theater tickets, the dinners out had all been grand, and now she was alone, which sounded horrible and promising at the same time. She no longer had her friend, her companion, and she felt that loss keenly. However, she also no longer had to please anyone but herself, and she was just beginning to think what that might mean.

            By 7 a.m. she was tired of just contemplating the idea of making a decision, so she made one instead. She decided to do something fun, something that would please her and only her. A hot shower gave way to her favorite jeans, the ones with holes scattered across the knees and thighs; the ones Michael hated because they looked so ratty.

            “You aren’t wearing those out somewhere, are you? They look like someone put them on the fence and shot them with a 12-gauge,” she heard him comment wryly in her ear.

            “Why, yes I am,” she responded crisply to the mirror as she put on her favorite dark red lipstick after slipping on a form-fitting black silk t-shirt. A moment later she slipped on a pair of sexy, strappy black sandals and slung a chain belt around her slim frame. The color of the metal echoed the gleam of the white gold cross she wore at her throat, the platinum band that graced her left hand, and the silver glinting in her otherwise dark hair. Then she stopped and took stock of herself in the mirror. Forty-five-year-old eyes shone back at her. They were a clear dark blue, the eyes of a 16-year-old surrounded by a few crinkles that had formed in recent years, the eyes that turned a brooding jade green when she was angry and the light gray-blue of spring rain when she was sad. The red, puffiness of crying was no longer visible in those eyes. The tears had stopped a day or two ago after seeming to rise constantly for several days before that. “I’m just all cried out,” she had told her friends. “There aren’t any tears left inside my soul right now.”

            Her first stop of the day was at a new salon a couple of miles from home. She tipped the counter girl ten dollars to “find” her name in the morning appointment list; then settled into an overstuffed velvet chair that clashed with her lipstick and sipped the cup of coffee the girl had brought her. The steamy liquid tasted particularly good with double sweetener and hazelnut creamer – just the way she liked it. She thought she’d buy a new coffee maker later, one that made lattes or something fancy. Michael never drank coffee, though he didn’t care if she did. It was just too much hassle to have coffee and hot tea, so she just started drinking tea with him. It didn’t really matter after all, as long as it was hot, and she didn’t have to make it. Now, she guessed if she was going to make her own, it was worth making what she really liked.

            “I’d have made it if you asked,” Michael whispered in her ear. “I know,” she breathed to herself.

The counter girl pulled her out of her reverie with, “Ma’am, we’re ready for you now.”

            Funny, she thought as she surveyed the stylist’s work in the mirror 30 minutes later, I feel so much lighter now. She decided the new cut was sassy, a little edgy with its short back and sides and longer, tousled top that accentuated the bright strands in her hair and the light sparks in her eyes. As she moved away from the mirror to find a nail polish color that matched her favorite lipstick, she made a mental note to buy some new earrings that picked up that liquid silver quality of her hair.

            Her next stop was the mall. She decided to park near the theater so she could catch a movie later. There was a new romantic comedy that was supposed to be “wickedly funny” according to a local reviewer. “That sounds right up my alley,” she thought.

            “I thought you only liked action-adventure flicks on the big screen,” Michael commented with a twinge of surprise in his voice.

            “I guess that just shows you don’t know everything about me,” she smiled.

But before the movie, she wanted to have lunch at a little Mexican cantina near the end of the food court. She hadn’t eaten much over the course of the previous week even though friends and relatives had stock-piled her kitchen counters and refrigerator with food of every shape and description. She had tried to feed everyone who appeared at her house, but there was still too much left for her to eat. She briefly contemplated divvying it up into single portions and putting it in the freezer, but rejected the idea as too much trouble. Instead she decided she would take it all over to the school tomorrow morning and leave it in the faculty lunch room for everyone to enjoy. That would give her an opportunity to check on her substitute and students and talk to the principal about when she’d be back. “I like that plan,” she thought.

“Me, too,” echoed Michael.

In the meantime, some guacamole and black bean nachos would hit the spot. She decided to sit at one of the two-person pub tables in the bar area near the window that looked out over the central court of the mall. The waiter was quick to bring her a menu and take her drink order, but gave her a sadly patronizing smile when he learned that no one would be joining her for lunch. As she sipped her blue moon margarita and waited for her nachos, with chopped jalapenos, she thought about how often she and Michael had passed this place but never stopped for dinner.

            “I hate Mexican food,” he protested. “And they don’t have anything on the menu that doesn’t have some sort of pepper in it.”

            “I know,” she said aloud to know one in particular, “but I like this place. It’s festive.” She continued looking through the glass at the people passing by, but felt she could almost see Michael’s black leather sport coat reflecting back in the chair across from her.

            “The haircut is flattering,” he said. “Why didn’t you have it cut that way when I was alive to mess it up?”

            “Because you always liked my hair longer, and I tried to please you,” she responded. This time she saw the people at the next table turn to see who she was talking to, and she realized she’d have to learn to have these conversations in her head. “After all,” she thought, “that’s where Michael is now.” Then she wondered if hearing the voice of her dead husband talking to her made her a candidate for a straight jacket. Oh well, it didn’t matter because right now her nachos were being delivered along with a second margarita.

            “You shouldn’t have another one this early in the day,” Michael chided.

             “Hush,” she said to herself. “I can do anything I please.”

            After the movie, which had made her laugh just as the reviewer promised, she began wandering through the mall, strolling from store to store trying on every highly decorated, colorful, interesting outfit she could find. Occasionally the voice in her head commented on the wilder clothing, but it was quickly silenced by her own voice affirming her own opinion. In the end she rejected the gaudier pieces as uncomfortable and decided on several outfits that were formfitting, but not loud. However, she did buy some flashier accessories – dangle earrings, cuff bracelets, new shoes with matching purses – to complete the outfits. “This stuff is very cool, but still appropriate,” she thought. “After all, I am still in mourning.”

            “And you look great in black,” Michael commented. “It goes well with those killer red nails.”

            At this she laughed out loud drawing glances from people walking past her. “I’m glad you approve,” she whispered. “You know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

After placing her bags in the trunk of the sleek black convertible, she put on her favorite sunglasses – the ones with the sparkly stones and cat-eye shape – and popped the top, letting in the evening sun and air. When she hit the interstate, the wind tousled her gleaming hair as she heard Michael’s voice singing along with “Hotel California.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she could see his lean body slouching into the passenger seat, enjoying the dying day. She headed east, letting the road lead the way, until it was too dark to see.