Chapter seven: Longing
He watched the closed door for a few moments, hoping that a forgotten phone or wallet might bring her back home and give them a second goodbye. He had very quickly developed an unconscious awareness of the time it took her to travel between the apartment’s door and the elevator down to the main exit, but held out hope for a short time longer while he tried to will her back home. When the finality of her absence finally locked into place in his mind, he turned to face the enormity of the empty apartment.
His feet scuffed across the carpet as he reentered the living room. He could still smell her in the air, but the apartment took on a hollow, cavernous feeling when she wasn’t in it. He had found it all too easy to sleep the hours of her workday away in those first days after his Diminishing. There was a panicky uneasiness without her, and his initial pass at managing that had been to quiet his mind into sleep until the sounds of her homecoming roused him. She expressed concern over how unhealthy this was, and it had almost immediately begun to negatively impact his ability to sleep through the nights with her, and so for the past couple of weeks he has been focusing instead on keeping busy while she’s out of the house.
He considered his to-dos today: Tidy the bedroom. Dust. Write. Past chapters of his life would have reduced those first two tasks to maybe a half hour of labor total, but there were very few small tasks left in his life.
He crossed through the living room, absently marking the transition into the hallway as the spring of the cheap carpet deepened. He could almost bound the few feet between living room and bedroom, where the original plush of the carpet had not been worn down by past tenants nearly as thoroughly as in the living room and bedroom.
Ness had drawn the bedroom door slightly ajar on her way out. The door scuffed over carpet, making it difficult for him to push without considerable exertion, but he slipped through the crack with ease. The room’s chilly bite had not yet yielded to the abundant sunlight that poured into the space, and a shiver passed through him as he entered the cool emptiness of the bedroom. He considered going into the closet to grab the sweater that Ness had commissioned from the same woman who made his current ensemble, but decided that the labor of cleaning would likely warm him up.
He turned right, putting his back to the bathroom door, and began to walk towards the cornered desk. His steps fell slower and shorter as he approached the enormous pile of laundry centered beyond the foot of the bed. He clambered over it, endlessly entertained by the brief scramble that reaching the plushy peak asked of him. He found the dark sleeve of a hoodie that could take his meager weight, and used it as a tether to scale the first part of the pile. He climbed the first foot and a half that way before reaching the buried shoulder of the sweatshirt, and eyed for a second handhold.
Her scents swirled around him in dizzying waves. He looked for any excuse to spend time in this pile, lost in the haze of lotions, perfumes, and sweat that clung to her laundry. He tested the hold his feet had to a plane of denim - last week’s jeans, finally worn to the point of needing a wash - and felt secure purchase. A thin, dark scrap of thong, tangled in the bundle of black dress pants that she had worn for a presentation last week, caught his eye. It dangled a few inches past his left shoulder; an easy enough jump, as long as the pants were buried tightly enough to support him.
He shifted his weight slightly, pressing the bottoms of his feet flat as he lowered himself into a brief squat. He allowed some slack on his hold of her sleeve with his right hand, abandoning it with his left, and lunged. He reached upwards as he jumped, his left fist closing tightly around the strap of her underwear.
The strap stretched as it took his weight. The balled-up pants that lodged them shifted, the belt that was still looped through it clicking gently as they adjusted, but the weight of the pile atop them held everything firmly. His legs were swinging slightly, causing more clicking from the belt above, until he drove his feet back into the pile, anchoring himself as his toes scrunched between a gray camisole and some tights. The fabric was cool and smooth on his feet, and he let his right foot swirl idly around the loose tights for a moment, enjoying the gentle slide of the fabric on his bare skin as he considered his next step.
He gave another testing yank on the thong. Another gentle clink sounded as the pants responded to his tug, but he felt confident that the bundle would bear his weight. He shifted his weight up into his arms, his feet falling flat vertically against the pile, and he began to pull himself up, using the thong as a rope to walk up the pile. He gained ground this way, scrambling over the belted pants to stand atop her slacks. The crest of the pile was barely over his head now, and it was a messy scramble over t-shirts and a loose pair of wool socks to achieve the peak’s view of the room.
He let himself fall into a seated position as soon as he reached the top of the pile, sinking generously into the chilly fabrics as he laid backwards. He reached out to his right side to draw the heavy wool boot sock he had climbed over a moment ago over him. She took to wearing these around the house in the winter months, and kept these at the top of the pile to rewear whenever she got home. They were cool from lack of use, but as he drew the sock - almost as long as he was tall - into a hug, he could still smell her on them.
He sighed deeply, drinking the low sharpness of her scent and the thoughts of her that it carried. He wondered for a moment how her commute was going, and then sat up. He had wasted a few minutes unnecessarily scaling the pile, and wanted to tidy up her desk before he lost much more of the morning.
He scooted forward awkwardly, having to lift and wriggle to escape the tumbled snares of her clothing that formed his floor. Gravity took over for him as his hips passed over the edge, and he slid clumsily but harmlessly down the pile. He had aimed for a hoodie and landed true, the soft plush of its layers keeping him from winding himself. He landed splayed on his back, eyes taking in the upside-down view of the pile, and watched helplessly as a pair of sweatpants came crashing down towards him.
Impact was heavy and soft. The pants, dislodged from the top of the pile by his descent, crashed over him in a wave of dark plush. He scrambled awkwardly under its even weight, searching with all four limbs for the cold touch of open air that would enable his escape. His right arm broke free first, and he wriggled under the pantleg, emerging free and rising from the laundry heap in a clumsy stumble.
He continued towards her desk, the foot of their bed rising clifflike to his left. He walked around the chair, stepping between it and the wall, and faced the built-in drawers that ran down the right side of the desk. There were three drawers, two identical large squares topped by a shallower rectangle, with simple wooden pull-knobs centered on each. A long piece of hemp cord ran over the faces of the drawers, secured to the circular makeup mirror on the desktop and landing in a small pool on the carpet. Ness had tied a series of stopper knots into the cord every couple of inches to afford easier handholds and footrests. It was a simple, though tiring, climb.
He took the cord into his hand and gave it a few testing yanks. When the mirror failed to budge under his weight, he leaned backwards, stacking his hands atop a knot just above head-height, and hopped, leaving the hand-held knot roughly chest-high. He caught another knot between his feet and adjusted his balance, moving his feet to the top of the knot and pressing his legs firmly together, pinning the rope. He made for an awkward pendulum, but held tightly as the cord swung under his weight. As the swinging slowed to swaying, he released his right hand, raised his arm to the knot above, and pulled himself up. Necessity demanded drastically improved upper body strength at his new scale, and he had taken to rope-climbing much quicker than he had originally anticipated.
He climbed the rope in this manner, carrying himself over early knots that covered the first foot or so of the climb, until he reached the base of the bottom drawer. From here he could press his feet flat against the surface of the drawer and walk himself up the rope, trading knots as he climbed hand-over-hand. He took the climb slowly, and though he always felt a flicker of dread whenever he scrambled over the crest and onto the surface of the desk, it was an easy and uneventful ascent.
Her desktop was a familiar landscape by now. The back right corner of the desk housed makeup and skincare supplies in a small plastic vanity. The clear plastic drawers of the vanity revealed the cluttered messes of their contents, though Ness always seemed to know exactly where whatever she was looking for could be found. Atop the vanity was her blow dryer, a mint-colored compact salon model that she had received for Christmas back in college and treasured since. To the left of the vanity was her makeup mirror, the base of which served as anchor for his cord and ascent. The rest of the space was a somewhat variable plane of discordant use; books, notebooks, her laptop, important paperwork, incoming mail, odds other odds and ends all came and went from the left side of the desk. It was currently unusually spartan, though - a product of the deep clean he and Ness gave the apartment last weekend. All that adorned the far side of the desktop was a planner and a hardcover novel, both of which she must have forgotten to take to work with her this morning.
He approached the vanity and slid the bottom drawer open. It protested under the weight of the contents of the two drawers above it, which had begun to warp the cheap plastic slightly, and he had to grab hold of the drawer with both hands and squat lift the drawer to align the tracks and reveal its contents. He retrieved his prize from the top of the pile: a Swiffer duster pad cut into chunks about an inch wide. He gathered two slices of the pad and slid the drawer shut, which proved a much easier process than opening it had.
He reached onto the top of the vanity and ran his palm along the lips of the plastic, testing for dust. When they came away clean he set off to the far corner of the desk. He stepped onto her planner, enjoying the cold, slippery glide of the vinyl cover, and stepped again onto the novel. It was a modest read, about two inches thick, and the clear plastic of the library binding sounded crisp as he stepped onto it. He looked over the edge of the desk, checking the corner and the far wall beneath for dust, and again saw nothing. The space stayed cleaner much longer now that there was only one full-sized human living in it, and Ness had clearly hit all of his usual dusting spots in her recent clean.
Beyond the far corner of the desk, Ness had improvised a simple slope out of the sturdy cardboard of a shoebox and some duct tape to afford safe passage to the windowsill. He stepped off of the novel and descended the ramp, his feet noting the transition from cool vinyl to the worn, sun-warmed grit of the cardboard. The tape clicked sharply as it settled under his weight, but it held fast and firm beneath him. Ness had insisted on testing the ramp with a pair of her boots, far outweighing him, to ensure that he could safely cross it without her.
The ramp ended at a brief lip onto the windowsill, which he stepped up onto. The coarse white stone was almost hot under his feet, drenched in the sun pouring in from the raised blinds. The windowsill was unusually deep and the wide surface of the rough stone offered ample space for Ness’ plants to thrive. He stooped in the corner, testing again for dust, and rose with a clean hand.
He decided to walk the length of the sill regardless, opting to sidestep the plants by pressing against the cold pane of the window instead of the riskier open air of the ledge. He stopped at each plant, ostensibly to check the pot for dust, and occasionally swept one of his Swiffer pads against the base in the interest of picking up what minute accumulation had begun since Ness had last dusted.
There were a variety of plants in nearly a dozen pots along the sill. As he walked along them he stopped to breathe in the crisp, green earthiness of stalks and blooms. The orchid, set in woodchips and a pot that nearly reached his chest; its delicate and thin stem secured by a hairclip to a post and towering its gentle pink blossoms high above him. Chrysanthemums blooming in fiery reds and orange, their radiance a monument to the stubborn defiance Ness exhumed when a florist told her she’d struggle to keep them in bloom over winter. An array of succulents in wood, soil, sand, and stone. He ran hands along sloping leaves, cupped petalled blooms, and swirled handfuls of soil as he strolled along them. These walks were the closest he could get to returning to his favorite solitary hikes at this scale; one of the only things he truly missed about his life before the Diminishing.
A modest jar, mottled white with a rich brown ring at its top, was waiting for him at the end of the sill. It was his favorite spot in the house, if he had to be in it without Ness. The windows ran most of the length of the bedroom, and he was almost cornered on the wall farthest from the bedroom’s entrance, almost parallel with the pillows atop their bed. The jar in front of him was only a few inches high, barely reaching his knees, but squat enough to swallow up almost the entirety of the width of the sill. A relatively recent planting, and one that Ness had been concerned she would have trouble supporting, was verdant and thriving in its home.
A plane of moss, soft and damp, smelling richly of loam and wood, rose in an even slope above the jar’s lip. He stroked the plant softly for a moment, then took a firm hold as he swung his left leg up onto the surface, climbing into the pot. He took two short, bouncing steps towards the center of the jar and then sat, crossing his legs beneath him and facing the bedroom.
The bed of moss was an even plush beneath him. He flexed is toes, gripping absentmindedly at it as he settled into a comfortable seat. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, slow breath through his nose. He carried the smell of woodlands into himself, the plane of peat and marsh beneath him stirring memories of hikes and rides through nearby parks and trails, and the stories he’d read and write sitting atop logs and stones, against trees and alongside cousin clumps to this one. He released the breath through his mouth, letting those thoughts escape with his air.
He allowed himself to rest empty for a moment, and then drew another deliberate breath through his nose. Along with the aroma of his retreat of a corner, he carried the deeply entangled roots of gratitude and love inward. He thought of Ness: for her companionship, her humor, their love, all flashing through the tender kindness in her that stirred her to carry this little piece of lowland indoors for him. He held that breath for a few heartbeats longer, dwelling on reciprocal plans in manifesting his love for her, and crawling over his aching longing for her to return home. He exhaled.
He spent a few minutes like that, breathing intentionally and reflecting on their life together. He felt muscles in his neck and shoulders unknot, the tension in his legs lessen, as if the soil beneath him was sapping his weariness from him. Renewed, he opened his eyes. The room stretched before him, a silent yawn of a space without her. The breath that left him as he gathered himself up from the ground was a sigh. He hopped off of the jar and cleaned his feet by way of scuffing, leaving a stray piece of plant and a tiny stain of soil on the white stone of the sill.
He turned and trod back across the sill, offering parting touches to the plants as he made his way towards the ramp. He crossed the cardboard, returned to the flat expanse of her desk, and continued on towards her makeup mirror. The wooden back of her chair, its seat tucked in under him as he passed the desktop’s center, rose in twin spires on his right. The rappel down the face of the desk was easier than the ascent; his confidence in his ability to conquer this height having grown over weeks of practice. He wondered at the time as he descended, his mind returning to Ness. He hoped that her presentation was going well; that her day wasn’t proving as stressful and frustrating as she had thought it might. He hoped she’d be home soon.
His feet planted onto the rough groove of the carpeting with a gentle thud. He turned, placing his back to her desk, and swept the room with his eyes. It looked orderly, and he imagined that if Ness had dusted the spots that she usually left for him that she had certainly dealt with the harder-to-climb dresser, and the bedside tables. His head was still swimming with thoughts of her, set ablaze by the direction that his moss-topped meditation had taken, and he was eager to put these thoughts to words. He decided that he was done cleaning for the day, and that left only writing to pass the remaining time until she returned home.
He turned right from the foot of her desk, and began to walk alongside the length of the bed. He stopped about halfway up the length of the frame, confident that he would be past the storage bins of out-of-season clothes, extra bedding, and seasonal decorations that she stored there. He stooped as he approached the bedside, gathering a handful of bedskirt in his left hand, and lifted it.
He slipped under the bed, letting the skirt fall behind him, and continued - hunched forward and mindful not to hit his head on the wooden slats that held the mattress - towards the head of the bed. There, almost directly below his pillow, was his writing nook. Ness had cut his old yoga mat into pieces to repurpose for him in the wake of his Diminishing, and half of it remained down here. He stepped onto the smooth, squishy foam and dropped into a seat. He scooched forward to settle cross-legged in front of an iPad, laying landscape along the wall beneath the headboard.
He leaned forward and double-pressed the tablet’s ‘Home’ button, flashing the screen to life and arriving at the homescreen. He opened Messenger, arriving at the thread with Ness, and found a message from her waiting there: “Easy day so far! Got all the bullshit out of the way so much faster than I was expecting. Should be less than half an hour later than usual, presentation’s looking pretty straightforward. Do we need anything?” A purple heart and ladybug emoji served as a signoff for the message.
He pressed his prompt for the text-to-speech function, the iPad’s on-screen keyboard unwieldy and exhausting at this scale, and spoke his reply: “Yay! So glad it’s all going well. Don’t need anything on my end. Love you and see you soon!” He reciprocated the heart and ladybug emojis, leaning forward to hit the ‘Send’ button and pressing ‘Home’ to leave Messenger.
He swiped the screen right to open Drive, tapping his way into his “WIP” folder and eventually landing on the story titled “Ness’ Bug.” He opened a blank document as the text-to-speech assistant woke up, and he began dictating:
“Chapter 8: Diminishing…”