100 Proof

The last thing he sent her was a CD with two tracks: each half of a speech he gave days before he shot himself.

It took her nearly six months, but she wrapped herself in the blanket he’d kept on his bed in college and turned out all the lights to listen. His recording spoke directly to her, though she could hear his sales team rustling in the audience. He sincerely delivered the material, which was about finding hope during dark times.

When the first track ended, she pressed stop. Sometimes, it’s better not to know how things end.

Everything is shifting, she said after an hour of silence. I’ve been waiting for this to happen for months, and it’s finally here.

He didn’t quite know what she was talking about, but he nodded anyway. He hoped she would return to that place of silence she’d emerged from.

It’s as if the door is finally cracking open, she said, and he nodded again, imagining a room where the silence happened because she had exited and he was the one left behind.

She had drawn his name in the places downtown where most people would never think to look. She didn’t care, much, if he ever noticed; it just pleased her to know his name was out there, exposed, wearing away ink molecule by ink molecule as rain fell and wind rushed by.

How did your day go? he asked when she got home, but it was clear he didn’t care to hear the answer.

Fine, she said, rubbing her fingertips against her thumbs as if she could feel the stains left behind by her good day’s work.

She learned to braid her hair tightly, to keep it wrapped close down her spine, something no one would touch. She learned to scrub her face clean and to keep it unadorned, to wear only the clothes that hid the outline of her body rather than those that followed it closely. He kept his anger at redline pressure at all times, and these were the ways she kept herself out of its hot and angry blast zone radius.

She had been the pretty one, once. Once, she’d been the one who smiled.

She had heard it said so many times: Keep a notebook by the bed to capture the thoughts that fade at dawn like so many stars. She had never adopted the practice, which meant she spent most days trying to remember the ideas forgotten, the words that spilled over from her dreams, the stories she had meant to tell upon waking. The act of trying to remember distracted her from asking why she so feared capturing those communications from the recesses of her brain.

He became King due to an epidemic of bad information. There he was, atop his throne, and no one felt comfortable to say, Hey. Sir. Get out of that chair.

No one said a straight word until the Real King returned from his business trip. Please go, the Real King said. This is a grievous misunderstanding.

This is how coups begin, said the accidental King. He had grown to like the soft fabrics and beautiful women of the court, and the thick carpet of quite comfortable untruths.

He met her at the intersection of a train whistle and an out-of-tune piano—she lived in a world more cacophonous than most. She soothed him, though—left him quiet and thoughtful each time he saw her.

I’d never have expected to find you, he said. You’re like a smooth melody.

You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, she said. Just then, another train blew through the crossing.