To-Do List

by Michael Grant Smith

Mehrab Sium

Yesterday evening I loitered in our backyard and glimpsed the last crescent of the moon. An incandescent sliver set into a liminal gray disc. One more thing I have to fix.

You called out from the porch, “What are you doing out there in the dark?”

“Walking the dog and enjoying the nighttime sky,” I replied.

“We don’t own a dog.” The door slammed shut.

I’m hair strands on a bar of soap, a box wine stain on taupe carpet, the rash that won’t go away. I straighten picture frames whenever you leave the room. While you’re asleep I jot down your intimate secrets and auction them to myself, the highest bidder.

Your eyes glisten with gratitude each occasion I find your car keys or phone, and naturally I’ll devise newer, better places to hide these most precious possessions.

“Do you remember the night we met?” you ask me this morning over coffee.

Your favorite daily routine, in my mind at least: the two of us, seated side by side on the front steps. Commuter traffic sputter-surges along our street, fenced by a soundscape of rumbling trains. The sun can’t wait to shine on us.

“Indeed I do, sweetness. Three months and two days ago. A Friday.”

Towel-wrapped hair and moist bathrobe. The glow of your face could cast shadows. You smile and my heart jiggles with delight for the thousandth time this week.

“You delivered a pizza and haven’t left,” you say. “They fired you for not going back to work, but you still wear the uniform. Do you think perhaps you could love me and be employed, simultaneously?”

“I can’t.” The sadness I express might be real. “My affection for you is too strong. Love is a hefty yet rewarding pleasure-boulder we push uphill. A basket of puppies and kittens and chaos. True commitment doesn’t tolerate compromise.”

You do the trick with your fingers, a wedge plunged beneath my ribcage. I adore you. Your lip twitches in reciprocity.

“You’re a supersmart dude and I believe you can solve this puzzle. Other people figure it out.”

I kick off my slippers and nudge them with my toes until the googly eyes stare up at us. Have I ever been happier? Not in three months and two days.

“Darling, I agree I’m brilliant, but even I can’t unravel this knot. Our passion is too big, too much, too wow. Nothing else matters.”

Those perfect fingers, unlocked from their lethal martial arts form, dangle in your lap.

“I was depressed,” you whisper, almost to yourself, which would be silly because I’m right here. Your coffee cools. “Pizza. I thought pizza would cheer me up. You were so…interested in me, and open about expressing your emotions…”

I swoon when you speak to me with the same candor you afford your diary; I’ve read every entry, of course. Past us wheezes a diesel bus. On its side is ad signage conjured to promote a new television series or ice cream flavor or something:

We stayed up all night wishing for this so you wouldn’t have to.

In its wake the bus leaves spiraled clouds of dust and fumes. Dirt pixies. I wonder if I’m letting down someone, somewhere, who could use my advice, or there are parakeets I’m obligated to feed, or maybe an elderly person depends on me to pick up their prescription. Although I’ve often said I yearn to be inside you, I meant all of me, not sex.

New filthy air rushes to fill the departed bus’s space. My eyelids droop and I watch movies inside my head.

With my mouth-voice I ask the question I pose every day — “What do you suppose I’m going to say is the most adorable facet of our relationship?”

I open my eyes but only your shampoo scent and coffee cup remain.

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Michael Grant Smith wears sleeveless T-shirts, weather permitting. His writing has appeared in elimae, The Airgonaut, The Cabinet of Heed, Ellipsis Zine, Spelk, Bending Genres, Unbroken Journal, MoonPark Review, Okay Donkey, Splonk, and elsewhere. Michael resides in Ohio. He has traveled to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Cincinnati. To learn too much about Michael, please visit www.michaelgrantsmith.com and @MGSatMGScom.