The Longest Night
Song of Solomon, 3

She smiled as she turned the glove over in her hands. It felt almost the same as it had back then, only now it was a little more aged, a little more worn out. Just like he was. Like they both were.

Her eyes drifted over his face briefly, and then she put the glove on the side table by the old, long-since-lived alarm clock. The hands forever pointed to 4:53. This moment. She left and sat by the fire, thinking.

After a few minutes, fatigue was overcoming her. Her head nodded back and forth as she fought off sleep. After several minutes of stubbornness, she pulled herself onto the couch and fell onto it heavily. After the previous night, she felt she could sleep for days, or simply never bother with waking up again. Her eyes closed gently, her last sigh slipping away before she let herself be carried off.

Flashes of colour and blurs came first. She remembered none of it. None of it except him looking back at her on the platform two years before. It would come back over and over, and the thought I don’t have to imagine him here anymore brought her floating back to the surface. She awoke to the sight of the ceiling and smoke billowing through her shabby flue. It took her a moment to realize that that was her ceiling, her flue, and her blanket.

The blanket she had put on him.

She sat up quickly, looking to the bedroom. He was gone.

It dropped through her belly. She whipped her head around in a frenzy, and her eyes settled on a black figure outside her window, seated by the frozen shore. She tossed the blanket to the floor and sped out the door and around the house, following the jagged footsteps to shore. A chunk of ice had been chipped away from the lake near where he sat.

As she approached him, he laughed sheepishly. “Good thing you came. I’ve been having trouble getting up again.”

“What are you doing out here?” she asked sternly, kneeling down beside him.

“I wanted to collect a water sample.” He held up one of the tubes he had had in his bag. Melting ice was within it. Each end of the tube was based with a thick black mound, which had a label with a code on it.

“What’s it for?”

“To test it. The virus, you know. It does things to water.”

“Is that why you left? That place up north, I mean?”

“Partly,” he replied breathlessly. He looked out over the lake, his face pinched in pain.

“Let’s get you back inside.” He did not reply. His face was so haggard, it seemed paper thin.

Eventually he nodded. “Yes.”

She made sure she was close enough for him to grab onto her shoulders, and after his arm hooked around her, she hoisted him up, straining. He nearly screamed in her ear, gripping his side like he was being sliced open. Gasping, he limped along with her back to the cabin with their arms wrapped around each other, his pain blaring in his cries and shining on his face.

She dragged him through the streets, burning from the effort, him growing heavier by the moment. They were all they had left of anything, and their strength was waning dangerously.

She walked him around to the front of the cabin. There was a moment she nearly spilled him on his head when his knees folded and he let go. With the last of her willpower she lunged forward in time to land him on the couch.

“We should check your wound.”

He moved just enough to unbutton his coat. A small amount of fresh blood had soaked through his shirt. The dressing bloomed red. He untied the rope and moved the rag. The skin around the stitches was straining against the thread. Dark puss leaked from the corners. She stood immediately on sight and retrieved her kit. There was still some vodka left. Had her hands always been this slow? Once open, she poured it directly on the stitches. The scream. She dabbed at his skin with her old shirt as he writhed, then tore off a strip of it and bundled it against his stomach, tying the rope around him as loosely as she could with enough give to hold it in place.

“You have to take it easy,” she said, shaking. “I don’t need medical training to say that.”

“I know,” he replied. Swallowed. Moaned. “I’m sorry to have worried you.”

He pulled his shirt down and buttoned up his coat. When he looked over towards the bedroom, he sighed. “I’ll just stay here.”

“If you need to use the waste pot, I can bring it here for you.” She said it hesitantly, afraid of making him uncomfortable.

“Oh, thank you. I used it while you were sleeping,” he replied. “It was a lot easier to move around then.” He chuckled lightly, groaning in pain at the same time. After he seemed to relax a little, he looked over at her, his expression shifting to concern. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tonight, we dine,” he said with a crooked smile, light coming to his voice. “You shouldn’t keep yourself in check. At least not tonight. Let’s gorge.”

The abrupt change in mood was fluid yet it caught her off guard. She smiled, subtly trying to mask the laughter that prickled at her throat.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Well, since you mention it, I have pork and beans with canned fruit for dessert.”

“Dessert?” she repeated in half bewilderment and half jest.

“A luxury we can afford.”

Following his instructions, she pulled a pot from his pack and opened the can of beans with a pull-tab. She held the pot over the fire, rolling her eyes and tipping her head back as she inhaled the sweet aroma. “I haven’t had this for a long time.”

“Beans?”

“Or meat.”

“Then tonight really is a celebration.”

After she deemed the food cooked, she pulled a spoon from his pack and sat next to him on the couch. They ate quickly, taking turns with the spoon, feeding their ravenous hunger. She hadn’t even eaten as much as this when rations were being given in Fort McMurray. After she retrieved a can of fruit from his bag to share, but he insisted on one can each, and they ate in equal fashion, quickly devouring their respective cans, but enjoying each moment of every swallow.

She took a bottle of water to the sink with the remaining utensils to rinse them off, then left them to dry. He offered her to take some supplements in his bag, which she did hungrily. She looked in his direction again, noticing him watching her. He looked too much like a man in turmoil. His hair was starting to mat, his beard was wild and wiry. Hidden away

“Would you like a hair cut?” she offered. “I’m no stylist, but I can make things cleaner for you.”

The man contemplated her for a moment. “It keeps me warm.”

“Okay.”

“But I would like that.”

She felt abashed for some reason. “There are some scissors in here somewhere,” she said as she stood, walking towards the old bathroom.

She searched the cabinets before replaceing the scissors in the cupboard under the sink. She swept them up and marched back to the living room with them in hand. “Stay put,” she commanded, and pushed the couch forward slightly so she could stand behind it. She moved the broken mirror closer to the couch, then threw a blanket around his shoulders like an apron.

“Is it too tight around your neck?”

He laughed. In the shattered mirror her smile refracted over and over.

She started by combing her fingers through his hair, untangling the clumps. She began trimming his hair from the top, starting off small and careful, then building confidence as she went. His hair had more grey in it than she remembered, more than she would think a person would grow in two years’ time. The smile slowly sloughed away as she fell into her work. His hair was shorter behind the ears than that, higher up the neck as well. On she ventured.

When she was finished, she reached for the blanket from either side of his neck and shook it out thoroughly. Instantly her dream came to life. How dull the crystal clear images were in comparison. Her heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She studied him in the mirror’s reflection. He returned her gaze evenly. “Just like new,” she said quietly.

The corners of his mouth turned upward briefly then softened slowly. “Do you mind if I use your knife to shave? I know a beard helps keep the cold away, but I’m not used to wearing one.”

I know. She swallowed and nodded, then pulled her knife from her boot. After handing it to him, she tied the blanket around his neck again and collected the pot from the kitchen. Her hand shook as she poured water into it. She tried to steady herself as she handed it to him. He took it without saying anything so she retreated to the bathroom. Small, dark confines helped but she still felt shaky and lightheaded. It took her a while to recollect all the control she had let fly before she went back into the living room.

The mirror was so shattered that the man was forced to lean over and hang precariously over the pot of water, shifting constantly to see his reflection clearly as he shaved. Catherine watched him from behind the corner, then approached cautiously. He stopped and watched. Her hand brushed his lightly as she encouraged him to surrender the knife. She considered the angle of the situation, then felt her face flare red as she knelt down in front of him. He shifted as she shimmied closer.

The sun was setting. A golden light was cast through the window. She grabbed his chin hesitantly to tip his head upward, and she pressed the blade against the base of his neck. The trust he had in her, a complete stranger who risked so much just to save his life.

As she stripped away the beard, more memories floated to the surface. She replayed the scenarios in her head as she continued to uncover the man she once remembered. At that moment, she didn’t care if her feelings played freely on her face for him to see. After the majority of whiskers had been shaved off on the underside of his neck, Catherine scraped the knife against the side of the pot, dipped her fingers in the water, and gently rubbed them across his face. Then she tilted his head to the other side.

The time he was closest to her. She was standing at the station, pretending to read the paper. He came down the escalator, and instead of walking towards his usual spot, he headed towards her. She forced her eyes to remain on her paper, afraid to look up, afraid to take the risk of revealing herself. He was nearly right next to her when he grabbed a paper from the stand next to her and walked to his spot. She exhaled quietly into her paper, closing her eyes.

She scraped off the knife and wet down his face again, lowered his head, and traced the knife slowly across his chin.

The first day she had ever laid eyes on him, the first time she heard his voice…the day he looked her straight in the eye with an expression like he was saying goodbye.

She looked into his eyes when she thought about that last day, her knife pausing at his chin. He met her eyes unwaveringly but she couldn’t read him. Simply soft. Did you notice?

She made the last stroke across his cheek, then gently scraped off the small patches she had left behind. Shaving with the knife was not perfect: he was left with an uneven layer of stubble, but he still looked fresh and clean in comparison. The world restored.

She put the knife down on the floor next to her when she had finished, but she did not stand. Her hands kneaded her knees in contemplation, then her eyes slowly rose from the floor to him again. His face remained unchanged. She searched his expression, trying to replace that one detail that told her something about what he was thinking. Her eyes flickered to his lips, and catching herself, she stood abruptly, half hoping he didn’t notice, half hoping he did.

She abruptly grabbed the pot which sat on his lap, this time avoiding his eyes, and turned her back to him. The door squeaked as she swung it open harshly, and she dumped the dirtied water to the side. Calm down.

On impulse, she walked into the night, closing the door behind her. There was no courage to summon, and she could not face him a second time. After everything else, this was what she could not do.

The snow kicked up around her feet as she walked, and she finally came to a stop at the mouth of the trees, where the ruined road lay in rubble and snow. She could see nothing but looked for an answer nonetheless.

It was embarrassment she felt when she started to cry. She should not feel like this because he did not remember her. He did not know of the things she thought. Her desires. Nor would he ever return them if he had known, simply on principle. She was a timid idiot. He would not approve, he would not feel the same. There was no doubt, no matter how much she didn’t want to believe it.

Air started to sting going down. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and fought. When she was sure no more tears would come, she opened her eyes and looked down the road again. There were still no answers, but she did not want them anymore.

She made her way back to the house after about an hour, and stepped in quickly, trying to keep the cold out and the heat in. She turned her head slowly, and when she looked at him, she noticed his head tilted to the side, his breathing deep and even.

Relief embraced her, and she exhaled slowly. It was better this way, things being left unsaid.

Making sure to keep quiet, she tiptoed over and gently lifted his feet onto the couch. She then picked up the blanket and draped it over him, ensuring he would be kept warm, hoping he would heal quickly.

She started towards the bedroom, but realized she had no blanket and the fire would not keep her warm there. It would be better to rest in the living room, next to the fire, next to him. The thought hurt.

As she sat on the floor, she let her eyes linger over his sleeping face, letting her thoughts betray her for a moment more before she pushed them down. No, not pushed. She had the distinct feeling of bringing an axe down over and over, brutally destroying whatever fragile thing she had made. Except it was not fragile. There it remained. It would take more strikes. Each day for years. Whittling down a rock with water. It had to be done, as much as she rued to do it.

For the past two years, even when she let herself think about him for hours on end, a pain still remained, reminding her that they were only thoughts, that she would never get to experience them firsthand. But he was there at that very moment, and he needed her there – maybe he even wanted her there.

Survival. It was worth it after all. He was alive, and he would be there in the future. She would never get close, but how was that different from her past? She could live knowing that she would have the ability to see him and speak to him every day. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel like she was surviving anymore.