Secret Number 78

When I woke up this morning, for a split second I actually forgot what day it was. When I remembered of course, I felt my heart fill with dread. But not just any dread, oh no. This was the day I looked forward to ever year. The only day in fact.

I got out of bed already feeling it. The emptiness.

As I started the coffee pot, I imagined what it would be like. "I think we'd be married by now." I said to no one. I walked through my empty apartment, to the hall closet, and stood on my toes to reach the top shelf. I felt around until my fingertips found a shoe-box - cardboard and worn - and coaxed it down.

"Do not open before 9/17, I mean it!" it said, written in thick permanent marker. The top was held down with several layers of duct tape, one of which secured a box-cutter to hack them away. Oh yes, it was a ceremony. I hugged it to my chest as I made my way back to the kitchen, humming a song that I could only hum today. I set the box down on my wooden table and poured a cup of coffee before starting.

My hands shook as I cut through the tape, like I was cutting through my own skin. Holding my breath, I opened it and pulled out a stack of envelopes first.

"Hm, weird." I said. "Turning yellow..."

I didn't think it had been that long, but the date on the first letter was a little over eight years prior. "Jesus, it's been eight years already? We're getting old, aren't we?" I smiled at the empty chair next to me, opening the first letter. I read out loud to no one,

"Dear Chris, I can't sleep tonight, not without you. This bed feels so empty without you in it. As a matter of fact, everything feels different. You know I actually made you coffee this morning? Three sugars and all before I noticed. Guess that's just another reason to come back, huh? I miss you. I miss seeing you, touching you, even just waking up beside you, knowing you're with me. Oh well, in good time, I guess. With love, Allen."

I glanced back at the chair, reaching my hand towards its table-space. If I closed my eyes, I could feel his hand holding mine. I opened a letter from the middle of the stack, reading,

"Dear Chrisa, it's been awhile, I know, and no I didn't forget how to write, I've just been a bit busy here. I came to work, remember? But no matter. I've made friends here too, you know. Everyone needs a social life, and I do hope you've been keeping yours. I know it's like you to hide away in your books, but it's not healthy, Chris. Go out, have some fun, okay? For me. Love, Allen."

I sighed at this one, holding my imaginary hand tighter. Skipping forward several months, I picked out the last letter. With a shaky voice I read,

"Chris, I know, I know. It's been four months. You want to know the truth? You exhaust me. You're incredibly perplexing, and I'm just not the person to figure you out. Not right now anyway. Just give me the rest of the season, and I'll be back by fall. We can see what happens then, okay? you're still the greatest person I know, no question there, I just need more time. I'll see you soon. Allen."

I wrapped the letters back in their rubber band, and pulled out the other contents of the box - a stack of pictures, a t-shirt, some folded notes - and spread them out in a fan on the table. I looked through them for awhile, finally breathing in the scent of the shirt. By now, there wasn't much left to smell. Time passes, things change, and scents fade. But never this. Not my little ritual.

I pulled out the last paper from the box, a tiny scrap of a news article, dated September 18th, 1990. This one I kept quiet; it wasn't meant for anyone but me, real or imaginary. The article read,

'Yesterday evening at 7:58pm, Allen Orsman was the victim of vehicular homicide, a hit-and-run accident outside the Super 8 motel on Corsica Ave. and Legion Rd. The driver of the green Honda Civic that struck him has not been identified, but police described her as a white female, medium height and build, with short, dark hair. Orsman, suffering from severe internal hemorrhaging, died shortly after departing for William Davis Memorial Hospital at 8:17pm.'

"Why did you leave me Allen? How could you do this to me?" I sobbed, standing up fast and knocking my chair out from under me. Suddenly, I could feel it coming. The hot bubble of rage, hatred, filled with poison and rising from my stomach. I grabbed the delicate blue coffee cup and threw it across the room. "Why did you leave me?" I screamed as it shattered against a wall. I had painted them a dark shade specifically for this purpose.

My eyes blurred as I slid down to the floor, leaning against my cabinets. "Why the fuck did you leave me?" I whispered.

One day. One horrible, peaceful day out of the year that I can feel this.

"You abandoned me, Allen, why? Why?"

Three-hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, I was charming, coping Christine. The bright ray of inspiration in everyone's day. See Chris heal. See Chris live. But not today. Never, ever today.

"You never should have left me, Allen. Now you know."


"I only allow myself to read your letters once a year (9/17) Then, I let myself fantasize how my life would be different if you were still around. Sometimes I find myself hating you because it's easier than missing you."