James in revival
I open the door to a man in my image. He’s embracing my wife. She won’t look at me as she laughs along to something the man says. Her laugh is different; it booms to the sway of the green ruffled dress she only wears on Sundays.
She says, “It’s been so long since we’ve talked like this,” as she lightly pats her soft curls down with one hand.
“I know,” he says in my cadence while holding her tighter. I’m still gripping the door handle. “I’m sorry it took me so long to hear you.” My wife’s arms are around his neck now. He turns his gaze toward me. She smiles warmly. His face is stone. I take a few steps toward them and begin to yell. Aubrey doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t turn toward the sound. I run to the man, attempting to take hold of his collar, but my hands don’t land. They can’t. They phase through him like hands intercepting the sun’s warm rays. I feel nothing solid. My wife sees nothing solid other than the man holding her still, so I stop, rattled, and they walk upstairs to the bedroom.
I had never noticed the floral lace patterns woven into our kitchen drapes before, nor did I note their texture before I stopped feeling. I realize I didn’t note most things: the old lampshade that emits a gentle yellowish hue, the fireplace I haven’t lit since we moved in, how Aubrey holds her breath when I enter the room. The man looks at her kindly as she slowly exhales.
“Do you want a cup of coffee James?”
Aubrey is wearing her apron, the one with evergreen lining.
“Yes, please,” he replies with a quiet nod while opening the morning paper. Aubrey smiles and pours him the cup. I’ve forgotten what coffee tastes like, but the man seems fond of it. James seems fond of it, fond of her and this life. I waver in the corner, watching the scene. I’ve forgotten what I’m here for.