Our Infinite Sadness

Labyrinth

Ben arose from bed with effortless lightness, relieved by last night's expurgation of the burdens that he had been bearing, a yoke around his neck, for far too long. The familiar pre-dawn haze beyond his window appeared to froth and boil under the rising sun, presaging its late morning dissipation to the bright powder blue that Alice had promised.

He clothed himself mechanically, with whatever his hands touched, layering himself by rote, preoccupied by fresh anxieties over what the day might bring. On his way downstairs he felt his trouser pockets for his iPhone and realized that he had consigned it to cold storage with a flood of intense relief. There would be no errant distractions today.

Charlie had already gone. This relieved him, too, for the call of the river had absolved Ben of the obligation to say goodbye.

He ate mechanically and cleaned up after himself as he chewed and swallowed. Was he being excessively fastidious, to think that since he was likely going to his death, he ought not to burden his survivors with a dirty sink? Yet, on that very same impulse, he bounded back up the stairs to set his bedroom in order. He made the bed and tidied his desk. Then he closed and latched the windows. 

He considered leaving his wallet behind, since it held his identification, which he presumed his parents would need... if, well... and then he realized that the wallet also held, in the concealed slot stitched into its spine, the folded slip of paper on which were written his symbolic question to Edythe and her laconic reply. This crumpled, salvaged and refolded letter exchange was the only thing from Edythe that he possessed, his only objective evidence that she was real and had ever touched his life.

He stuffed the wallet into his front pocket. His good luck charm. He smiled and nodded with grim determination. Now he could face his fate head-on.

He took a deep breath and stood at the front door, to wait.

He felt himself as never before, every bit of himself, from toes to fingers to scalp, the endless interchange of calls and answers that said, I. Soon, those innumerable messengers might cease and disperse like dust. He knew this rationally, but he couldn't fear it, because he envisioned Edythe, and he could not find the capacity anywhere within himself to be afraid.

With no preamble whatsoever, neither footsteps on the porch nor the slightest whisper, a quiet knock sent infinitesimal tremors through the air.

He opened the door, and there she stood, looking up at him from inches away. Her face must have been pressed to the door when she had knocked.

She peered up at him, inexplicably, through garish designer sunglasses emblazoned with buttercups on their yellow rims. She studied him with pink lips pursed, button nose upturned, one auburn eyelash arched and visible from behind the giant fishbowl lenses.

Her waist-length auburn hair was drawn back from her forehead and neck, gathered into a white alice band. She wore a light tan sweater with a scoop neck, layered over what looked like a white t-shirt, and she wore baggy jeans with the hint of a khaki layer beneath.

"Hey, you," Edythe breathed, "you look sweet."

"As do you. Did you really walk here? Or did Alice drive you?" That could not have been possible; he'd been standing at the door for several minutes and would have heard an arriving and departing car.

Edythe ignored the question and remarked, "We're both wearing feng shui beige, today. Am I calming and soothing?"

"Hardly," he admitted, looking down at himself to realize that she was entirely correct; they had dressed like twins, entirely by coincidence, as he had thrown his clothes on blindly.