After Marcus

• My body hasn’t reacted to anyone since I lost my husband. For the longest time, I never wanted to be attracted to anyone ever again, and as time passed, I thought I couldn’t. But lately, a flutter in my stomach I haven’t felt in ages has proved me wrong. A tender warmth filling my chest. A twinge in my balls and a desire to touch. To be close to someone.

• No, not someone. Close to Joar.

• At first, I tried to push it away, feeling like the innocent emotions would make me disloyal, would brand me a cheater, but I can’t ignore them anymore.

• I don’t want to ignore them. But what do I do?

What are you afraid of, Ossian?

• “Shut up. I’m not afraid,” I tell Marcus’s imaginary voice in my head.

• The urge to talk to him is overwhelming, so I grab my glasses and jump out of bed, get dressed in warm clothing, head out to the car, and drive to the cemetery. I don’t stop to think until I’ve parked at the gates and stepped out of the car, into the freezing winds, and slip on the icy ground. I manage to catch myself on the car before I fall.

• “Fuck, Ossian,” I mutter, “one day your impulsivity will kill you.”

Don’t be a drama queen. But you’re right; that was supremely irresponsible of you.

• “Supremely irresponsible, my ass. Stop talking to me in my head. You’re not real, just the imagination of my sleep-deprived mind.” I collapse against the car, shoulders slumped and shaking, hiding my face behind gloved hands.

• I don’t like driving in the dark -- my myopia makes it hard for me to see properly -- and I especially don’t like driving on icy roads. And as on cue, more snowflakes start pouring down from the sky, dotting me with white flecks, as though the universe is mocking me for my stupidity. I shake my hands, my arms, my head, shaking off the snow like I’m a dog trying to shake off water after a bath, but it doesn’t help. Instead, the snow increases, and I have to hurry, or I’ll be stuck here for the rest of the night.

• My feet know the way to Marcus’s grave without any input from my mind; I’ve walked the path many, many times. It’s not my first nightly visit, even if I haven’t been here at this hour for a long time, and definitely not in December when the temperatures are freezing and with snow sprinkled on my glasses. Someone shoveled the walkways earlier, but if anyone’s been here before me, their footprints are long covered by freshly fallen snow.

• I slip several times, barely managing to stay on my feet, and it’s a relief to finally sink onto my knees on the icy cold ground when I reach my destination. The headstone is partially covered with snow, and I sweep it away with my gloved hand until I can read the inscription.

Marcus Nyman 1972 – 2018. Beloved husband.

• “Hey you,” I say, caressing the headstone, knowing he’d be so pissed off at me for driving on a pitch-black December night and in such awful weather conditions.

What’s so important you need to risk your fucking life?

• “You.”

A dead guy is never more important than your life, precious.

• Precious. He never used endearments unless he was being ironic or upset at me for some reason.

• “I needed to talk to you.”

• His imaginary voice in my mind is right, though. I was irresponsible driving here, barely paying attention, after not sleeping at all. I’m lucky I managed in one piece.

• It’s past four in the morning and the winds have picked up, sneaking underneath my clothing, whirling the falling snow around me until it finds its way into my ears, underneath my scarf, attacking me from every direction. I need to stand up right now and leave, or I won’t be able to drive home.

But I remain in my spot, needing to be close to him.