carefully everywhere descending by L.B. Bedford Page A

with me and talking about base coats, all the while—” Another stop. Another swig. “Maybe they’ll end up painting the room blue together. God knows I can’t stay in that house. I thought I would raise my kids in it with her.”
    I have a lump in my throat, and I say “I’m sorry,” again, but Mitchell doesn’t acknowledge it.
    â€œI quit my last job because she wanted me to,” he continues relentlessly, painfully. “It wasn’t a bad job, but she thought I spent too much time there. I learned how to grill steaks just the way she liked them, and never to buy tuna because she couldn’t stand the smell of it. I learned about different cuts of diamonds for her, to learn what kind of jewelry she’d like. I learned to live with the house temperature ten degrees hotter than I’m comfortable because she always felt cold. I just— Goddamn, I loved that woman.”
    He raises a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He takes a wavering breath. Then he drops his hand and peers at me.
    â€œWhat about you? What about that girl you were with?”
    My own eyes cloud with tears, but unlike his, mine overfill and slide down my cheeks.
    â€œShe didn’t want me,” I say and sob once.
    â€œLove is a misery, Audrey,” Mitchell says. He offers me his Coke bottle. “Vodka?”
    I decline with a shake of my head.
    He and I sit in silence. Each of us imagining blue walls, I think.
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    I SAY I have a lot of homework to do, which is true, and go to my room with the intention of settling in for the rest of the night. I’m not as productive as I usually am. My thoughts are more prone to wandering, and the fourth time I catch myself staring off into the distance uselessly, I curse my lost laser focus.
    Finally, I’m down to the English Poem That Is Causing A Perpetual Headache, courtesy of e. e. cummings. At least now I know for sure that poetry is not a viable career option for me , I text to Amber, who quickly responds with a :) .
    I roll into my favorite thinking position—half off the bed, feet on the wall—and pull the monstrously thick English Anthology textbook to my chest to reread “somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond.” This must be my twelfth time reading the poem, but suddenly, I understand it differently. The same way the world had appeared new to my eyes after I realized all Scarlett meant to me, I now feel a depth in each line that before had been missing.
    I only make it halfway through when, for the second time that day, tears well up in my eyes. I toss the book aside and get up. I need to go for a walk.
    To my great relief, I don’t pass anyone as I head out. I’m not sneaking away, exactly. Just something very close to it.
    My mysterious new neighbor’s light is back on. I can’t say exactly why I’m so intrigued by him, but all of a sudden, I’m reckless. I don’t like things that don’t make sense to me, and so I march toward his house to introduce myself.
    Before I know it, I’m on the steps. I ring the doorbell. There’s a TV show or movie playing inside, and I hear the volume suddenly cut. I ring the door again, in case he hadn’t heard me with the sound on before. No movement or sound comes from inside the house.
    Perplexed, I open my mouth to call through the door that I’m a neighbor and I just want to say hi. A slight motion out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn my head and see the curtain in the window fall quickly back in place. Nothing else happens.
    Now I feel like an idiot, just standing outside.
    I walk away, but the resident of the house has only made me more determined to figure out what is going on with him.
    I recap it to Amber the next day during lunch, who is not nearly as enthralled with the situation as I am.
    â€œAnd I knew he was in there!” I say for the third time, trying