The Longest Night
Song of Solomon, 2

She awoke shivering on the couch, wrapped in a ball, hugging her knees loosely to herself. It was day again, and sunlight was diluted by a thick sheet of grey sky. She sat up on the couch and looked through the doorway to the bedroom. He was still sleeping, lying in the same position she had left him in.

The sharp ache in her hips called her attention. She headed for the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet for the jug of washroom water. She then undid her jeans and pulled them down.

The jeans had become a second skin, one which she peeled away. Every inch was felt. Once she cleared her eyes of tears she surveyed the damage. Blood had caked over her hips and thighs. A harsh red line traced the place where the rope sat naturally against her – where the pressure had been, carrying him all this way.

She used the water judiciously on yet another strip of shirt. Each wipe was brutal so she took it slow. But he had sewn up his own skin. She held her breath and applied more pressure to properly clean herself. The worst of it abated. It was to bring him here. This she would carry until her last.

She went into the kitchen and opened the old oven, her wood storage. Collecting a few branches in her arms, she planted herself by the blackened pit in the living room floor and prepped a fire. Using another sheet of old newspaper as kindling (the headline read: Epidemic: Suspected Connection With Meteorite Crash in Northern Ontario), she lit it. Within minutes the fire was growing quickly, an insatiable creature, and in turn she felt her fingers and toes come back to life. She used and dumped her chamber pot, then changed into the fresh red sweater and blue jeans she had stowed away in the dresser, all the while very aware that he was nearby and she was so exposed. She felt new in the crispness of the sweater, as if it was freshly laundered. She inhaled deeply, but the relatively fresh smell had a dampness behind it, as if even neglected by moths. The cold still lingered on her coat like the smell did, and the excitement of wearing fresh clothes was chilled away. New socks felt the best of all. To keep comfort going she slipped her hunting knife inside her boot.

As she sat before the fire, she reflected. Who was luckier? Though she had saved his life, he had given her back hers. But he knew of a place that had shelter, food, and probably even protection. She certainly was worried of what she would do when the day came that she had scavenged every last thing there was to eat. With little game and no chance of harvesting anything substantial for a winter, she knew she would eventually starve to death. It used to be an issue she invested little care into, before she had found her reason to live.

She got up to go check on him. She knew he would be fine, but she peeked in on him just about every second she was standing because it put her at ease. When she got to the doorway, she leaned against the frame, watching him sleep. Even though she knew how obsessive and borderline insane she was, she stayed right where she was and kept on studying. She felt so serene standing there.

Something was on the floor by the bed, and Catherine stepped closer to see what it was. When she bent over to pick it up, her hand stayed and she froze, stooped there on the floor.

A single black leather glove.

A smile flashed over her face briefly, then faded as her heart thudded in her chest. She picked it up, holding it in both her hands, feeling it, turning it over slowly. She had seen this glove once before. It had held her as well.

She clutched the sides of the paper tensely, watching the story unfold before her eyes.

She dragged him along quickly, trying to swallow her screams. He squeezed her shoulders so tight she couldn’t feel them anymore. The footsteps echoed from afar, but it was getting closer. One of them snarled. Death upon them soon.

The southbound train suddenly pulled up, and Catherine jumped as she was pulled back to the present. So engulfed was she that she hadn’t seen him descend the stairs – she hadn’t once looked up until now. He was walking towards the train as it slowed, and she watched him go with disappointment. As he stepped closer to the train, waiting his turn to board, a glove fell from his pocket.

She wanted to call out, but the words were caught in her throat. Her hands squeezed the paper and her breath hitched. All the while he walked closer to the train, leaving the glove on the platform. She stared at the glove, and her eyes flickered between him and the small article. She tried to force her feet forward, but she stayed planted on the spot, feeling her heart quicken and her fingers tingle.

When he boarded, a small noise escaped her throat. Dammit, Catherine. She stared at the glove, feeling like it would turn and bark at her to stop being so detestable.

She looked around the platform. When she was certain no one was watching she slowly approached the glove like she was approaching the man himself. She stooped over and picked it up. It felt soft under her hands, aged and worn. There was a small hole between two of the fingers. A tag on the inside had long since faded away from days upon days of wear. These details were him. Then she remembered she felt apprehensive of even touching it, like she was violating some sort of rule, like she was overstepping her boundaries, or simply just being repugnant. But her hands explored it like she was feeling silk for the first time.

The realization that she was looking at a glove so closely, crouching on the platform gave her the distinct feeling that she was Gollum, holding his Precious. She stood abruptly at the thought and held the glove down at her side as inconspicuously as she could.

There were two options. One, she could drop the glove off at the lost and found and he could pick it up whenever he realized it was missing. Two, she could give it to him herself. While that idea was compelling and heart-racing, she felt nervous at the very thought of it. She hadn’t said anything to him in three years for good reason, and she didn’t think she would be able to do it now. But now that she had the opportunity…what would she do? What would she say? What would he say?

When the northbound train arrived, she put the glove in her pocket hastily and rushed onto it. The entire day she was conscious of it being there in her coat, and she would frequently glance at it, wanting to pull it out and hold it again. It felt so strong, yet so soft, and holding it made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a precipice. At her lunch break, she did pull it out, and she set it next to her book as she read.

When she arrived home, she did her homework, studied, ate a frozen dinner by herself (her mother was working the night shift at the hospital), and spent the entire evening with the glove in sight. At night she held it once more, looking it over, memorizing its detail, before she placed it in her bag and went to bed. Tomorrow she would give it to him, she decided.

In the morning, she showered, dried her hair, did her makeup, and even put on some perfume. After she dotted some up her jawline, she paused, looking at herself in the mirror. “What are you doing?” She put away her things quietly, then prepared herself to go to school. She kissed her mother on the cheek (who was passed out in bed, still wearing her scrubs) and left for the LRT station.

Catherine stood there, without “Judgement Day” in her hands, or even a newspaper. She kept rehearsing in her head what it was she wanted to say, and she felt herself growing increasingly nervous the more she spoke to herself. Her introduction would be of the glove. “Here, you dropped this yesterday, I think.” But beyond that, Catherine had no idea what to say. She was even more worried of what he would or wouldn’t say. Would he be thankful, humble? Would he chat her up for a while, ask her things about her day or what she did? Or would he be so unpleasant that he would insult her? She was terrified of the answer, and the longer time went on, the less confident she became.

The usual group of people finally descended the steps, and there he was at the end. Catherine watched him, flexing her hands to rid herself of the numbing feeling that crept into them. She reached for the glove in her pocket. As soon as she wrapped her fingers around it, she halted. Every scenario she had thought up of for this moment came back tenfold, all at once. For the moment she had forgotten how to command her arm; her hand remained in her pocket, her elbow locked in place, her eyes set downcast.

He took his spot by the heating lamp. This was the moment. She had these words rehearsed, and she would say them. “You dropped this yesterday…You boarded the train before I could give it to you.”

She spent five minutes trying to will herself to move, and she hadn’t realized the time go by until the southbound train pulled up to the platform. Her eyes widened and her hand stiffened around the glove, and she merely stood there as she watched him board.

“Catherine,” she whispered to herself, disappointed. She had no problem pulling the glove out then. She looked it over, contemplating it. She was aware of just how shy she was, but this…

After school, she went to the services desk at the LRT station and dropped the glove off with the lost and found. When the custodian asked her for a name, she replied, “Anonymous.”