Quincy ~ SOFIA EBBESEN

Quincy

SOFIA EBBESEN

My nightly routine hasn’t changed much. Every night, I still slide over to the cabinet, after putting Quincy to sleep, to pour a drink. It used to be a scotch with three ice cubes. Only now it’s scotch with one cube, and I pour for one, now that you’re gone. Our apartment hasn’t changed much either; except, I moved your book shelves above the bar, for reasons I’m sure you’d understand. I’ve considered switching to tequila: I hear it’s the only alcohol that lifts you up rather than brings you down, but I know you would say “that’s all bullshit, stick to your roots’.’ Tequila also reminds me too much of college; granted, I doubt the kind I would buy now would smell the same as the $7/a liter bottle. I miss college sometimes, or maybe I just miss you. Do you remember how we first met? You were sitting in Brooks, past midnight, on a dark-brown leather chair with a rusted-gold reading light. You wrote in a black leather journal. I came in frantically that night to write a paper I had put off. I remember exactly what I wore: baggy gray sweatpants, an oversized pink sweatshirt, and a beanie. The library was a ghost town, as could be expected for homecoming weekend. I sat at a light-oak table and opened my laptop to start writing; Then, I saw you. It’s safe to say after that my paper was days late. I woke up the next morning in your bed, fully clothed, with a hot cup of coffee and a bottle of Advil on the side table labeled with a yellow sticky-note that read “Take This.” You came into the room, a towel around your waist, looking fresh. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and asked “Did we have sex?.” You laughed, “no, we didn’t.” I nodded. “Thanks for the coffee.” I shook the Advil bottle, “You need?” “I’m good,” you said, “I only had one drink.” You left the room to make breakfast. I spent a while observing your room. The room smelled of a fresh load of laundry and was tidy. It was quite plain. The walls wore two floating shelves that held only black leather journals. There must have been only ten then, nothing compared to my shelves now. On the desk was a small photo of you and a woman which I thought was your mom at the time, smiling in front of Niagara Falls. All I could think that morning was who is this guy?! I was intrigued by you, your obvious love for the pen and the page, your intentions with me. I didn’t understand you, so I wanted to investigate. You were put together; I wasn’t, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be yet. I had a future ahead of me, so I wasn’t sure if getting to know someone was in my plan for that time… I thought that night would be the last I would spend with you. We got married a year after college. Maybe that was too soon, but I thought I knew you, everything about you. We had our routine together that I loved. I would go to work, you would spend the day writing, and I would come home at the end of the day to our tiny apartment we had back then to sit on the couch with you, have a drink, and talk about our days. I would perch myself on the couch, and stretch my legs on to your lap, and when I fell asleep, you would write in your journals, and carry me to bed to tuck me in. As work got busier, I know our time together got shorter, but I was always there at the end of the night to sit on the couch with you. I remember the first night you weren’t there. I had texted you it was going to be a long night at work, and that I would be coming home late. I lied: I planned on picking us up dinner and surprising you with a romantic night. I even bought a new lingerie set

and wore a trench coat over it, like Aurdrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When I got home, the bed was distressed, and you were nowhere to be found. I texted you saying I was coming home early, to which you responded, “Be home soon. I am out with a friend from out of town.” Who was this friend, I thought. I tried to think nothing of it. That night always stuck with me. When we moved into this new place, everything changed. You got a job, and I got pregnant. You were out more, and I was out less. Our nights on the couch seemed to have slipped out from under me, and so did you. When you finally came in to bed at night, we never had pillow talk or even sex at that point. I would doze off to sleep, and you stayed up writing in another black leather journal. Writing your life away. Yesterday marked a year you’ve been gone. Yesterday Quincy turned three months old. I read the journals yesterday. I have this fucked up ritual where I read them every fourth Sunday of the month, but sometimes, when I miss you, I read them to remind myself I shouldn’t. Yesterday was one of those days. I have been looking back to the past recently, looking for clarity or answers or signs or I don’t know, something. How did I not see the waving red flag that stood in your place on the couch? Why did I never ask to read your journals? I’ll never forget that night. I had suspected something was going on for a while, but I saw no place to turn. I went into the library, and sat on the couch with a cup of tea. My eyes locked to your journals. I picked up one, ran my hand over the smooth leather, and turned the page. Hours later, I was still turning pages. You walked in, your hair fluffed. The next morning you left. I ask myself every day why I don’t resent you, and then I look at Quincy. She has your eyes, your single dimple, and when I cuddle her all I think is I hope you are well. I have many questions, and it is hard having them unanswered. But now, Quincy is my answer. She has taken your place on the couch with me. I thank you for her. I imagine the falls are beautiful. Enjoy the view.