The drive to work had never bothered him before. Forty to fifty minute of sanctuary from the world, as if the ever so faint tint of the windows insulated him from worry. No, worries, as in plural, as in myriad. But insulation works both ways. Today, Steven shared the car with his worries, the same way a plague victim shares his body with his plague.“How?” he asked for the hundredth time. They’d been so careful: the pills, the cycles, the prescriptions. They’d done everything to avoid the situation they were in. “How?” Steven asked again, hopelessness displacing the last, lingering traces of rage.Mary, Steven’s wife, swore she’d been careful. Somehow, despite all their precautions, she was pregnant. Two home test verified the doctor’s prognosis. She’d cried when she told him. Alone in the shower, so had he.The bookstore came into view: a large, sprawling thing as independent bookstores went. Once, it had belonged to a thriving, prosperous chain. Now it stood alone, like the last surviving appendage of some giant organism laid low by rot and disease.The reality of it was, they had no money. Steven’s bookstore job couldn’t have paid the rent on their one bedroom and barely covered the maintenance costs of their single car. Mary only made slightly more as a bank teller. Health insurance existed, possibly, but that particular grail remained, for them, a myth. The time off work, the costs to carry and birth the child safely, let alone properly... Having the baby would surely doom them both.Subscribing to no particular religion, the answer was clear for Steven. The big A. Abortion. Mary, however, felt entirely different.Steven remembered his first day at the bookstore, the animosity they’d shown the refugee. He’d been the only survivor of his branch, the only one offered continued employment at another location. Little had he known the powers above had had to make room for him. Steven never met the woman who’s job he’d been given, but to judge by the loyalty of her former co-workers, she’d been very popular. But for Mary, Steven was alone in the big city, hundreds of miles and dozens of burned bridges from family or even a friend. In the beginning he’d lived alone, six months in a apartment with one spoon and a box for furniture. What he’d built since then, he’d built with his wife. So fully had she completed him, Steven didn’t even know how to make his own friends anymore.Not long after his first day in the new store, things improved for Steven. He loved books and loved working in a bookstore, and his enthusiasm endeared him to his co-workers. But not today. Somehow, the books no longer welcomed him. They accused him, they refracted and reverberated the foul look that was all his wife had for him anymore. The smell of burnt beans curdled something in Steven’s mouth. The coffee shop next door roasted their stock early on Mondays. Steven doubted anyone who’d actually had to smell the carbon reek of roasting coffee beans would voluntarily drink the stuff. The smell clung like a bad memory. They’d discussed things like rational adults. Together, they’d reached a decision based on reason and prudence. Yet her face changed, not twisting in a furtive, transitory expression, but setting in an indelible frown, like a new feature; “You did this to me,” it said. “You planted the seed in me and now you are making me kill it. And I will never, ever forgive you for any of it.” So comprehensive and explanatory was the look, conversation between the two became...redundant.Steven’s usual tasks did little to distract him. The others shuffled about on their own errands, blurry eyed and oblivious to his suffering. Somewhere in the store, Don and Drew laughed, cloaked and contained in a cubical of dented hardbacks and trashy bestsellers. “Are you all right, young man?” Mrs. Humphres asked in the somber tones which, for her, passed as concern. “I’m fine, Mrs. Humphres,” Steven lied. “Just tired.” He attempted a smile. Mrs. Humphres nodded, stamping her seal of approval on her co-worker’s serious mood.His marriage was over, this Steven knew. He could sense the absence of his Mary’s love, and it deflated him. He woke everyday feeling anemic. He would have given anything to go back to the way it was, back when she still seemed proud to be his wife. Steven had lived so long for her, he no longer knew how to live for anything else. He was only twenty-four.Lunch time came, and with it no lessening in his anguish. Thoughts, serious thoughts, infiltrated Steven’s mind. The rot was too deeply set, the cancer of his soul, too pervasive. And suddenly, Liz was standing beside him. Her hand hid behind her back as she waited for Steven’s attention. The sunflowers on her dress defied the dingy winter weather. In spite of himself, Steven remembered summer. She smiled coyly, her green eyes flashing between errant strands of wavy, wheat-colored hair. Elizabeth knew something Steven didn’t; she knew she was about to surprise him.“You,” she said, never ceasing to smile, “look like you need chocolate.” Liz took his hand, turned it palm up, and dropped a truffle there. Then she hopped away like a spring rabbit.Crinkled red foil wrapped the chocolate. Steven peeled it away with exquisite care. In his mind, he played back every interaction he’d ever had with Liz. Nothing in his memory hinted at such a perfect kindness. Steven’s teeth sank into the truffle as though it were ripe fruit. The taste: beyond anything he had ever imagined. A fresh, youthful exaltation infused his mind, heart, and mouth. It was like being kissed for the first time.
