Snowy ash drizzled from the sky. A fire had once raged.

 Gray embers dotted the grass and swirled away altogether. They fell on his hair, glittered along his shoulders, and landed on dark circles wrapped tightly around his eyes. They muddled and swirled around his coffee and spotted patterned old oak. The trees spoke a phrase he couldn't understand. The wind blew to a place he could not follow. Somewhere far, a dog barked out of step and tune.

 He stared downward at his coffee, waiting for the instant to fizzle. He waited for it to all wash away, for something to strike him, to awaken him from this cold, quiet hell. He waited a long time. 

He stood there until she called him to breakfast. Outside, ash landed softly along the house. Somewhere far, a dog barked, never quite in tune.

The table was set for two. Stacked high, baptized in syrup and strawberry, pancakes sat waiting to receive the praise they demanded. Eggs and bacon lined the grand display, wrapped around, forming a fluffy, flimsy smile. Next to it, the executor of the thing stood, hands clasped tightly, a plastered smile pasted tighter.

George stared at the display. His face made no motion, his eyes did not move, and his lips sat still.

“Do you like it, dear? Isn't it wonderful?” Her voice raised in heightened anticipation.

“Yes, It's lovely.”

Silence stood for just a moment. It was ushered away and replaced with a recreation of a memory. Two plates, one void of anything besides a neat square of eggs and the other with a single pancake dappled with strawberries. A pitcher of syrup sat disregarded. The grand mountain of gestures wilted away from unwatching eyes and a clock's hand that beat forward.

“How are your eggs, dear? You’ve hardly had a bite.”

He cut a corner of the egg off and raised it to his mouth. It felt formless and gray- like eating air. He contorted his lips into a smile.

“It’s great, Marge, I mean it, really it is, it's really great.”

“Thank you, dear. I'm glad you like it.

They sat quietly for another interminable moment. Inspecting their plates for any meaning they might hold. Silence took its place at the table and was ushered away by a useless whimper.

“Are you excited about your first day back? It must be so nice to see the old faces again.” She smiled, with lips sewn from straw.

“Yes, it must be, it should. What will you do today Margie?”

“Oh probably nothing you would find interesting dear.”

“Come now Marge, surely you'll do something worthy of note.”

George stared dumbly. No expression escaped, no emotion wandered free. Marge's cheeks rosied in awkward embarrassment. She ducked his glazed stare and busied herself attentively, studying the strawberry atop her cooling pancake with keen attention. George stared at his eggs, and slowly, his eyebrows furrowed to understanding. He thought about apologizing.

 “I must get going now.”

He put on his coat. It hung loose at the shoulders. He had bought it long ago, he could not remember where. He stood at the door holding a creaky, empty briefcase in hand. He turned, expecting a face waiting to send him off, but no face presented itself.

“George, " a voice called down the hallway, echoing and ricocheting through the house, bounding off walls without light and rapping across doors unopened. “I love you.”

“I know.” He turned and started towards the road. The door shut firmly behind. Its metallic click spoke for the both of them.

Marge stood in the hallway for a long time. She fiddled with her wedding ring and watched the dust flow into beams of light left by the small window in the door. They floated freely, unchained. Tears brimmed at her lids, but soon, they were stifled. And so was the absent-minded manipulation of the ring. She set about restoring the kitchen to its former charm. There was nothing to be said.

George sat in his car for a while. He stared ahead at the old oak sentinel, silently judging. It wore a gnarled jeer and tired skin; it had been younger when he had known it. A bird flew overhead. It circled and spied, but it did not find it. It cooed and cried, its wings beating tirelessly. It did not stop calling. It did not stop crying.

“Poor bastard.”

 He waited a while, trying to remember. Clouds fogged his mind. He watched little lives unfold across its skin, young ones learning and pushing curiously at the world, militant many followed crude dirt paths and arteries. The sun crept ever higher into the bluebird sky. The bustling masses paid it no attention. George sat there a while.  There was nothing in front of him besides the open road. Overhead, the bird flew aimlessly in deep, wide circles, each one looping ever closer to the ground. Then he went away. 

He was late, he was sure of it, no clock told him. It didn't have to. The trees stiffened and drained of earthly color. The clouds hung in perfect composure, like great white mobiles. He didn't remember a single thing that looked as it had. His walk to the door felt like walking on the moon. The parking lot had nothing but strange cars, ones he couldn't know.  The names on the desks had changed, and someone sat at his old place. 

“Can I help you?”

He stared blankly at a man with no face. For a moment, he thought him not real.

“Hey, can I help you?”

“No. No, I’m alright.”

He walked away and found another desk, another chair, another nameplate that remained empty. It felt comfortable. It felt as it had. His stomach lurched and flipped. George felt his breakfast for the first time.

  The worst of it was the eyes. Eyes he could not place, could not keep.  They stuck together in his mind, a horrible homogeneity of perception. No light was returned, no glance met with acknowledgment. Dark pupils caved deep holes into his mind. They followed him where he went. He could not remember one. He sat at his desk and stared at the clock, the only thing that seemed to meet his gaze without reluctance or disordinance. It beat a pace slower than the others that filled the room. It never beat the same pace twice. The noise seemed so loud and immense that it felt like silence. All around them, the world carried on with no disdain or delight, only ceaseless movement.

At the end of the company's day, friends, lovers, enemies, greatest of companions left to find bright lights and a steady beat. They muttered half-hearted pleasantries and shabby invitations. He smiled and shook his head. No was all he said. He waited a while, letting them process forward merrily from dark into light. The fluorescent lights became extinct one by one,  patterning symmetry to his desk. He stayed there until the last light went out, and then he left the clock to choke on its throbbing noise.

Marge waited by a veiled window, dying light splitting through tiredly, casting final streaks of brightness like searchlights on a dark tide. She sat idle and lone. She thumbed her ring finger, feeling skin newly freed. She sat in tense anticipation. Slowly, she produced a ring and reconnected it to her finger. She rubbed it with her index finger and thumb. She sat in perfect form, holding a letter preciously in her hand. Somewhere close, George was coming back to a house unlike home. 

The door clicked its habitual credo. George stood idle; his briefcase was as weightless as before, and his suit still felt tight where it shouldn't and loose where it wasn't wanted.

“Marge? Marge, are you there?”

He called into the ghost of a house. It looked like a reflection. His words skipped across it, rippling across a silken scene.

“Yes George I’m over here. I have such wonderful news!”

She stood expectantly off in the sunroom, holding a letter in a viscid grasp.

“George, my dear, you have mail! Isn't it great! It's addressed with your name!”

“Oh yes, that's great.”

“I wonder what it could be. It could be anything. Couldn't it?”

“It's just great, Marge. Who is it from?”

“It doesn't say. Why don't you open it now for the both of us and we’ll find out.”

He thought for a moment, studying Marge's pacing eyes, the quivering finger-tap ring against parchment, and the steely grip she held on it. For all his compassion, it couldn't seem to matter.

“Maybe some other time.”

“But dear, it's your first letter back, shouldn't yo-”

“Another time, Marge, Another time.”

Marge didn't say anything. She and George waded in neck-deep silence, rising still. Then she burst forward, grabbed hold of him, and wrapped him in a lover's embrace. The letter sank to the floor, floating listlessly to the ground. It wilted and curled. Deep hand marks lined its thin envelope. Marge squeezed George hard, hoping the pressure would revive him.

“Oh dear, are you sad, are you happy? Please, oh please, you're killing the both of us at once. What is it that you feel.”

He gingerly placed his arms on her shoulders and followed the curve of her cradle like one traces circles on a patch of dirt.

“I'm certain Marge. This world has lost its shine.” 

“You can't mean that, dear, you can't.”

“I'm afraid, I am afraid. I do not know what to make of me.”

“Please George, you must try to get better.”

“I don't know what better looks like Marge, I’ve forgotten its face, I’ve forgotten its touch.”

A silent tear dropped from Marge onto George's faded coat. They stayed like granite statues for a long while. Across the yard, steady aging oak watched in silence. The light fell from the windowsills, dropping placidly, draughting the house into darkness. A beleaguered sun crashed alone, and a dim moon ragged upward. A bird sat atop a limb; it did not move nor dare speak. It watched intently the dying of the light. All throughout the house, silence returned to its haunt. Somewhere close, ash fell thick and heavy onto the world like gray sheets. George and Marge remained frozen, one huddled mass, two cobbled existences flush in one embrace. Marge shut her eyes tightly. George looked out far, and a deep, implacable nothing faced him. The bird did not stop watching. The sun did not stop moving. Somewhere far, light grew and gave birth to another day. 

There was nothing to be said. There was nothing to be done.