One Foot in the Grave

Brianna Le / VMag at UVA

Rain had been drizzling since dawn, churning dust into smudges of paste. Both of my nostrils were clogged. I exhaled, again and again, futilely trying to break the blockage. Before long, a smear of redness appeared on my fingers; the dry November air made my already paper-thin nasal lining even more fragile.

I left it be. Blood trickled down my lips, into my mouth, and down my chin, leaving a pulsating stream. A rusty tang lingered in my mouth, coating my tongue, nauseating me. Alien tastes always made me gag. I yearned to expel the sticky blood from my mouth.

I sat on the toilet, burying my head between my legs, watching my own blood drip drop by drop into the puddle of water below, slowly diluting. Pink became the hue of the toilet bowl; cherry blossoms bloomed over the residual stains of blue toilet cleaner, like the cover of a cheap greeting card you'd find in any grocery store. I needed a sympathy card: "Dearest, most loved, I hope you are freed from the purgatory of nosebleeds; if not, then please, just die!"

I stood up and tilted my head back, letting the blood slide back into my throat. Then, I blew my nose at the sink. Red splattered on ceramics. The bloody stream ceased. Death was off the table. Of course, many reasons could rule out death — for instance, I was going on a date with a lady, not to mention I still had half a pack of cigarettes unfinished in my pocket. Nothing should have been written on that card.

I looked at my clock, and it was only about half an hour until the time. I threw on a coat and tossed myself into the rain. Autumn rain was not bone-chilling, yet the approaching cold front sharpened the wind. It rushed down the concrete valley into my collar. I wrapped tighter in my coat, hugging the storefronts, praying for the shelter of the awnings. Passing a craft shop, I realized I had nothing but that half-pack of cigarettes. Not enough, I couldn't go empty-handed. I walked in, picked up a pair of earrings, and wrapped this cluster of cheap glass and stainless steel in a brown kraft paper package.

It didn't take me long until I reached the agreed-upon park bench. I was five minutes late, but so was she. I wiped the seat with my hem, sat down, and placed the package next to me. I fished out a cigarette and shoved it in my mouth. As I struck the light, my vision caught my collar: a spot of undried blood bloomed in the rain, pinning a red lycoris to my shirt.

I hadn 't even finished smoking when she hurried over from a taxi across the street, holding a transparent umbrella. She hadn't stood me up. I took a deep drag and waited until she crossed the road. Then, I exhaled. Smoke dispersed in the air in front of my eyes, blurring her face.

"Hi." She said. Nothing, no explanation for her lateness, no pleasantries about the weather. Two pairs of eyes met. I saw a few droplets hanging from her lashes fall into her eyes with the rhythmic, minute trembling of her eyelids. "Hi," I replied, offering nothing more.

She sat beside me, shoulder to shoulder. My head remained forward. So, she followed my sight, and together, we gazed into the void.

"Kent," I broke the silence, "Very little resistance, not much kick either." It was the cigarette I was smoking. "I don't smoke. " She said, confused. "I know, I'm just telling you. I usually prefer Marlboros, but sometimes I opt for Parliaments or Camels. Those have a stronger kick and a better taste. But aside from that, I can't really tell what the difference is. "

I took the last drag and crushed the butt under my heel. She turned her head as creases started to form on her forehead. I kept my gaze on the road surface. My attention was drawn to a little marvel: in a puddle on the asphalt, a film of oil radiated an iridescent gleam. The oil film rippled, forming concentric circles that shattered the instant they met—colors mingling, decomposing, clustering, and merging under the relentless bombardment of droplets.

For the next ten minutes, I rambled on the prices, mouthfeel, and experience of different cigarette brands, in the manic tone of a TV salesperson. Throughout my monologue, my gaze never left that puddle. The volatile colors provided me solace in her silence. At last, her patience dried up. "Is that all you have to say?" She interrupted me. I averted my eyes from the puddle. Speechless, she stood up and looked at me with eyes filled with pity. I recognized that look: it's the pity for an unworthy man on his deathbed. I watched the transparent umbrella disappear at the corner. No, it was not all I had to say; it was all I could say. Then, I turned my head back to the bench.

The packet: it's still there.