a short story

She was sweet, and a little sad. He had always felt a terrible pity when he looked at her.

And yet he had never felt sadder than when he saw her now, a printed image, between his hands, between the lines. There, on that paper, in that thick swarm of ink and paint, forever smiling at him.

And he remembered a time where he and she were both completely still. Where he, too, lived underneath a print, and moved inside the paper, and moved towards her, and with her.

He remembered her blinking. He was waiting for her to blink. The waiting drove him mad. 

The lamplight bounced off the oranges of her shape, and he brushed his thumb against the page and the little specks of dust would stick, like glas sugar, to his skin. And he would be glad to have that small piece of her under his fingernail, as he sat there, so far away from where she was, so removed from the frozen landscape she perpetually inhabited. Moving, breathing, while she smiled.

Her eyes were too little for him to see any sadness in them, but he felt as if a bug had been set lose in his chest and was nibbling at his heartstrings. 

Phyllis had been sketched in a whim of grief, her face inked by trembling, suffering hands, and her spirit was clayed out of pity, and sadness was all she knew. So much was she built out of the feeling that she could no longer sense it.

He toyed around with this realization for awhile. He thought of it as someone who suddenly remembers that they’re breathing, then slowly take in a breath, thrilled by the knowledge that they’ve been doing something so vital so unconsciously for so long.

Phyllis’s sadness was like breathing. She was always sad, and only rarely noticed just how sad she was. Happiness would come to her as a novelty, an alien sensation, and only when she felt the warmth inside her chest would she come to the realization that she was constantly cold.

He put his fingertips around her face, delineated the rivers of ink that formed the texture of her hair, and what he felt was something flat and dry, but he didn’t really mind. She would feel a gentle caress and know it was him. And maybe she would smile a little more, and look less sad, or maybe blink.

Blink, Phyllis.

Phyllis. 

“Hey,” he whispered. 

“It’s me. I’m here. I’m here, Phyllis… Well, not… there, but here. I made it. Outside, I mean. I see you in the light. You’re so still you’re making me nervous…

“Look, I–I’m having vegetable cream for supper. It’s not as good as the one I had with you, because I’m fucking terrible at cooking, heh… but it’s enough. That’s more than enough. I’m sure you’d like it… 

“I can see you… I don’t know if you can see me… But maybe you can hear… while you sleep… forever in that page… will you hear me? Phyllis. Phyllis. You told me you felt happy when I said your name. I hope you feel happy now… Phyllis. Phyllis.”

He leaned forward slowly and put his forehead on the paper, next to her warm-colored figure, on top of the rest of the people, none of which saw or heard her, all of them going about a fabricated business, living forever blind to their lack of purpose, and he said her name softly, over and over again.

“Phyllis.”

Behind his eyelids, a storm was building. His mouth became inundated. He felt sick. The vegetable cream sat, cold, next to the book, next to his head, next to her.

And he said:

“Phyllis.”

Phyllis.

Phyllis.

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Copyright © Blanca Parga 2021