The canister had always been there, rolling around at the bottom of his duffle bag. Whenever he packed, his fingers would graze over the smooth, gray top, but he’d never take it out, never look directly at it. Sometimes when he unpacked, the canister would get wound up in a dirty sock or wedged inside a pocket, and it would come up with a handful of laundry as he went to chuck it into the machine. Whenever this happened, Jake would carefully retrieve the black cylinder and tuck it back into the bottom corner of his bag.
That’s where it belonged. That’s where it stayed. For years.
It had been so long, he no longer remembered what was on the film, what pictures could be frozen there on the tiny strip of celluloid.
When Maggie died, Jake was lost. He left his job, gave up their apartment, packed a few things into his duffle bag, and left town. He gave up on himself, letting his hair grow long and his beard grow white.
He drove the highways aimlessly, stoic behind the wheel of their beloved ‘69 Charger. Maggie loved that car more than most things and having her gone, looking to his right and seeing her seat empty was like a dagger to the side every time he looked. In the late afternoons, he could imagine her there; small hand hanging out of the window, fingers surfing on the wind. He could see the golden light of sunset in her fiery hair, illuminating her pale, beautiful face like an angel. If he wanted it badly enough, Jake could reach across the seats and take her hand, close his fingers around the apparition, feel her close.
But when reality returned, it hit hard.
His tears never seemed to stop, falling hard like a downpour on the windshield. The back of his hand wasn’t as efficient as the wipers to blast the drops of salty pain away, but it was all he had. When it was bad, he pulled over, caution lights blinking on the side of the road until the worst was over.
Jake stuck to the smaller towns, enjoying the feel of an old-timey Main Street. He liked to see the houses built close together, their covered porches inviting neighbors and strangers alike to sit and talk. He loved the old mom and pop stores, their windows filled with enticing seasonal displays. He told the time by these windows, counting months with glittered paper shamrocks or tiny American flags.
Mostly he floated. There was nowhere to be, no destination waiting for him at the end of the road. He slept in the car, stretching his long legs across the backseat and using her old gray hoodie as a pillow. Her smell had long ago faded, but if he tried hard enough, Jake could remember the faint hint of coconut that always seemed to spring from her skin. She liked to tease him saying that being from Florida meant that everything about her was tropical, even her scent. He didn’t care why she smelled like she did, what shampoo or lotion combination made her so delicious, he just knew that she was.
Maggie had been the light of and in his life and now he wandered in the shadows without her.
At night, with passing headlights rolling across the roof, Jake would conjure up a dream of her. It was routine now. He started with her hair, that flaming red mess of curls that tangled between his fingers, catching even when he tried to be smooth with his touches. Her eyes came next, faded denim blue beneath pale lashes that were almost blonde in the sunlight. They were his favorite; clear and true and filled with nothing but love when they lingered on his face.
He’d fall asleep like that, imagining her features, recreating her in his mind.
