Citrus Tea

Written: 17 June, 2009
Word count: 732

He visits frequently and just sporadically enough to keep me on my toes. I'll be watching from my fire escape, spraying my flowers, and he's standing there, the bottom of his Levi's slightly damp from the evening dew. My gut always gives a slight lurch, not wholly unpleasant, every time I turn and say, "Oh, you're here." Sometimes he flashes me his crooked smile or gives a slight shrug. Other times, he turns and walks away. Some nights he comes in, and I boil two citrus peels in honey water for him and watch him as he drinks.

Other nights, we sit on the fire escape and talk until we hear the first honks of the morning delivery trucks. We admire the unstable silence of the New York streets at dawn. I keep him talking. The week's late night soaps, the sporadic wars of the world, the woman across the street with an affinity for exotic herbs, the man downstairs with the peculiar tattoo, the mythology behind Orion's belt. I keep him talking in hopes of hearing him utter my name, ever so quietly into the heavy night air.

"Where do you go off every morning, Dave? So early in the morning. . . "
"I'll take you someday." He jokingly pushes my shoulder causing me to spill my tea. I run to the kitchen, and when I return with a patterned towel, Dave is gone, his cup untouched. No footsteps touch the stairs for the rest of the week. I keep a cup of citrus tea on the table every night, just in case.

My vigilance pays off when I hear a creak on my fire escape. I knock over one of my petunia pots in my fervor to open the door and shout, "Oh, you're back!"

"Say my name," I whisper, scared I'll frighten him.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please."

"Karen."

The name drifts into the air and settles somewhere up higher than I can reach. Hoping to snatch a measly vowel or consonant, I desperately grasp for something tangible to keep.

"Say it again."

"I can't keep coming back."

My stupor breaks.

"Why not?"

"You haven't left the apartment in a year."

"I'm always waiting for you." I try not to sound like a child.

"I can't come back. It's been a year. I can't keep coming back for you."

He slowly makes his way to the bookshelf and grabs a pile of newspaper clippings. He flips past last week's garden club tips and the month before's book recommendations. Past the erotic horoscopes and crossword puzzles. Past the stock market quotes, the weather predictions. In a flash his hands sift through one years worth of useless information and delicately pick out one lone slip of paper. A rogue neuron in my brain fires, and I realize what he's trying to show me.

"No! No! We can keep going like this! Nobody can say my name like you. Please keep coming, Dave. We still have so many constellations to look at! Too many cups of tea to drink! You're all I have."

"I was all you had."

He drops the tattered article to the ground. I can barely make out the words and the accompanying photo through my tear glands now in overdrive. My hand involuntarily picks up the crumpled wad reading. I blot out the words with my tears until no one can ever read them anymore.

"No! Take me with you, please, Dave. Take me with you! Please!" I grab a corner of his blue striped polo in a fit of mental abandon.

"I can't, Karen."

I hit my side on a table corner and fall to the ground, wincing. I catch a last glimpse of him in the door, and the creak of his feet on the fire escape.

******

"Is this Karen Alexander's house?"

"Yes, this is. I'm Karen's mother. Please come in."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't. I just came to give my condolences. I live downstairs. I heard about the suici-- well, I'm very sorry about, well, I'll be glad to help if you need anything. Just down the stairs. Uh, yes, well, nice to meet you."

Karen's mother walks back inside and sits in the kitchen, staring out the window, a cup of citrus tea in hand.