by Lauren Silverman
The best men are neither dead nor alive; they are somewhere in between.
Veronica thought so, anyway.
They do not eat, they do not fall ill, and they do not breathe, because they are dead. Yet they drink and they dance and they have sex because they are very much alive. Death clenches his fist and clicks his teeth in a vain attempt to claim what is undoubtedly his.
They sleep, too.
Or do they?
Veronica awoke at three in the morning. She had drawn the curtains before bed to let the moonlight in, but they had been pulled shut. She opened her eyes to darkness. Reaching forward, she felt for the pull string on the lamp and yanked it downward. It turned on with a soft click.
In the dim light, Veronica kicked off the black quilted comforter- they had switched to their autumn bedding already- and pushed herself off the bed. Even in such low visibility, she had a feeling the door leading outside was unlocked. She was right.
Through the brown and red of the door’s stained glass window, she noticed a dark, rippled shadow that stood stationary; it was distorted by the colored pieces, but she knew what it was.
She emerged and shut the door behind her. He clasped his hands around the deck’s freezing stone railing as the brisk air circled around him with a frustrated gentleness. He did not shiver.
Veronica walked to the rail and stood next to him. The wind, pleased, attacked its new victim with a gust of the forthcoming winter. She crossed her arms in fruitless defense while her teeth chattered for a moment.
“Go inside,” he said. His voice was gravelly and had a temper.
“I want to help you,” she said, prompting him to turn and face her.
His eyes were empty- a clear representation of a man who had lost everything: his life, his people, his possessions… Everything except his soul. If the blank gaze of the dead sought a target, it would look like this; the way he stared at Veronica both frightened and enticed her. Her own soul seemed to shrivel with fear that it too would fight its host body just to survive.
A living death sentence.
“No,” he said.
“Please? I want to-”
“You can’t help. You’re powerless.”
Veronica scoffed and looked away, a puff of her breath wafting forward like cigarette smoke. After a moment of contemplation, however, she realized he was right. She looked back at him, but he had redirected his lifeless stare to the black horizon.
Without a sound, she reached up and wrapped a hand around his shoulder and neck. He took a sharp breath and coughed immediately, his vacant lungs rejecting the unwanted air. Veronica pushed herself up on her toes so she barely reached his height and kissed his lips. He turned toward her, this time bringing his thin arm around her waist and pulling her into a second kiss, and a third, and a fourth, until Veronica’s racing heart galloped over the sound of the intruding wind; she forgot herself and forgot him and forgot his pale gray hair and her own fading roots and everything except the miserable darkness around them, lit only by the moon, which started its shameful retreat behind the clouds.
