Ashes and Wine

In the waning hours between when the young folk go to bed and the business world wakes up to their espresso in fancy paper cups, I am waiting.  A knock at your front door and you answer, berobed and befuddled at the intrusion that is either too late or too early.  In the days since we last met I have gained weight; ten pounds in all the right places.  Despite this you could still fit both hands around my waist if you wanted to, and as your eyes sweep me I know that some part of you does want to. 
You stand aside, and neither beckon me in nor turn me away.  I slouch into the hall, stepping over the rolls of skin that passes for your old basset.  Kneeling I pass my hand in front of his nose, after a few seconds of pondering he gives a quiet garumph of recognition.  Slipping him a beef offering from my coat pocket, I can hear your slippered toe beating a muffled tattoo on the hardwood.
"He's on a diet you know."
"Poor thing, months left on this earth and he can't even eat what he pleases."
"It's four o'clock in the fucking morning."
"It is."
Pausing we study each other.  You have kept your hair short out of habit; I can see the bits around your temples fading to white.   I wonder if you see the lines around my eyes.  It's too late now for miracle cures and skin tightening cream; I'm stuck with the ghosts of my years of laughter and tears.  
Outside the garbage truck is cling-clanging it's way down the street; in a few minutes it will reach the lone industrial sized dumpster at the end.  In mornings past the resulting cacophony served as my natural alarm clock.  Today the sound shakes you out of your silence. 
"You staying in town?"
"I don't know yet." 
"Need a place to crash?"
"No, not today."
You nod slowly, relaxing now that you know this is not a conjugal visit.
"Well, come on then.  There's a space heater in the living room I can turn on."  The old house has high tin ceilings and planked floors scored with decades of dragging furniture.  You spin the dial on a white heater, the only thing in the room that doesn't have a comfortable layer of dust.  I drag a saggy armchair up to it so that I can rest my toes on the warm plastic; you lean against the blocked off fireplace and continue to stare at me.
"So, it's been a while."
"Sixteen months."
"I thought you might be back for the funeral."
"Didn't think you wanted me here."  You shrug, then turn to stare at the mantel.  A woman stares out of a picture there, a laughing woman.  I remember taking that picture. 
It was the first time she convinced me to stay the night, telling me that I was far beyond driving home.  I slept on the old couch in this room-there was no heater then, and I was shivering.  You came downstairs to get a drink after she fell asleep and saw me shaking.  When you took me in your arms it was just as it had always been, for a while we forgot that you were married and I had found the right one with a ring to prove it.
After that she invited me around once every couple of months.  Soon a decade passed; she was the maid of honor at my wedding and the shoulder I cried on during the divorce and still you and I would find each other wrapped together on the same old couch.  I don't know if she knew, if she did she never said anything. 
When you called me a year and a half ago from the hospital I flew out.  She had already lost her hair in the treatment, but her smile was still there and she still offered me the couch to sleep on.  That night I slept alone.  Two months after that she was put in the ground surrounded by a lot of people who said touching things and left appropriately expensive flowers.  I had work or family or some other good reason I couldn't attend, and when I called the next week I got ring after ring after ring.  You never saw the point in answering machines. 
You are still looking at the picture, and for the first time I see the five years of age between us.  You look old. 
"I finally got my carry permit."  Dragging your eyes away from the laughing eyes you watch me pull glossy metal from my jacket pocket."
"You scared that you're going to get in trouble between your car and my front door?"
"You never know."
"Give it here."
I pass it over and watch you expertly heft it, some of the light going back into your eyes as you slide back the chamber. 
"Nine millimeter?"
"Mmmm."
"If you're going to be around for a couple days I'll take you to the range, could be fun."
"I'm leaving today."
"Suit yourself."
"Carl?"  You look up, I rarely use your given name.
"Yes?"
"Did you ever love me?"  You take a deep pull of dusty air, the light flying out of your eyes as you hand back the gun.
"We've been over this.  You know that I wanted to try things again, but then you met Evan and I found her and..."
"That's not what I asked.  But I guess I know anyway.  I just came to say goodbye mostly."
"You're not coming into town anymore?"
"I am.  Just don't think you will be seeing me."
"You don't want to...?"
I stand and go to the mantel, brushing past you and fingering the frame. 
"She was beautiful you know.  And kind.  You should have loved her.  You shouldn't have- we shouldn't have, well.  I wish you had loved me.  It wouldn't have been so horrible if you had."
I am still holding the gun, I flex my fingers around it and look up into your beautiful dead eyes. 
"You ruined me Carl, for everyone else.  I have wanted to hurt you for so long."  I press the metal into your chest, you wrap your arms around me and hold me there.  We are stuck in some obscene version of a hug; listening to the sounds of the street coming to life drifting in from outside.  In the hall the old dog whimpers, complaining that he hasn't had his quarter cup of diet feed for the morning.  Finally I break away, pushing with the gun until we are at arms length again.
"Goodbye Carl."  You look curiously from me to the gun in my hand, almost expectantly.  I hesitate for a second, then turn on me heel and walk out of the room.
In the hall the pile of skin and bones hasn't moved, but the dog lifts his head to look at me mournfully through watery old eyes.  The loud crack reverberates through the house followed by the dull thud of his head hitting the floor for the last time. 
I leave the house as an equal.  Now we both have nothing.