In the First Early Days of My Death by Catherine Hunter

other way, and the firefighters from the fire hall down the street who called her “Sweetheart” and complained about their wives. Her favourite customer of all was a young man with golden skin and a glass eye, who was forever leaving behind his sunglasses or his cigarettes or his keys. Evelyn would place these objects into the lost and found box, a little off to the side, apart from the ordinary jumble of lost things, because they were special. And because she knew he would be coming back. She recognized it as a form of flirting, this constant pretense at forgetting. A way of seeing her again and again. A way of making her think of him when he was not there.
    Evelyn felt a warm rush of regret, almost pleasurable, as she remembered the afternoon Alika left his wallet on the counter and changed her life forever. A wallet was a necessary item, and Evelyn expected him back any minute, but he didn’t come. She opened it up and found his identification, his address — he lived in a house close by — and his telephone number. So she called him. But first, she turned the wallet inside out, perused his business cards, driver’s license, gym membership, his receipts from the drycleaner and the hardware store.
    â€œThanks,” he said, as soon as he arrived. “I didn’t even notice it was missing.”
    Evelyn handed the wallet back to him, and he put it in his pocket without looking inside. That meant he trusted her.
    â€œYou’re very kind,” he said.
    Evelyn tried not to show her surprise. She tried to act as if people said such things to her all the time.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “You’re very — you’re beautiful.” She blushed. What had possessed her to say such a thing?
    Alika was looking at her intently. He was seeing her.
    â€œWhen do you get off?” he asked.
    â€œNot until eleven.”
    He smiled. “Should I come back at eleven?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    For the rest of her shift, she flew through her chores, dusting and ringing up purchases and counting out change with a grin. He had noticed her. He had really seen her.

    Alika didn’t know how to cook. He was aware that cabbages and lettuce and basil and tomatoes grew in the backyard. He had, occasionally, purchased lemons, salt, and other necessities from the supermarket. But how these ingredients came together to create his meals, his home, his daily, unnoticed comforts, was a mystery to him. I watched him sadly as he ripped a piece of bread from a stale loaf, then looked at it as if he didn’t know what it was for.
    Now that I was gone, the house was reverting to the chaos of its bachelor state. The drain in the kitchen sink was full of tiny objects — grains of rice, twist ties, noodles, the little leaves from the Brussels sprouts. Everything that resided under the furniture — socks and books and bits of string and unpaid bills — was accumulating a thin veneer of greasy dust. And there was nothing I could do about it.
    I lingered by Alika’s side, longing to touch his beautiful black hair, his dark eyebrows, to trace the contours of his damaged ear. He closed his eyes, began to snore. I watched his temples, his smooth, high forehead. What on earth went on in there? I pictured the interior of my husband’s mind as a dimly lit space, crowded with tangled bits of string, dusty old noodles and leftover Brussels sprouts, their tiny leaves unravelling, seeking the light.

    Seated at Alice’s desk, Felix moved his finger slowly down the pages as he read.
    This wasn’t him. This fearless, swift-thinking hero. He read about a decisive, risk-taking Felix, a Felix who squared his jaw and looked danger in the face, barely wincing when the bullet came searing through his chest.
    Felix knew he’d screamed when the bullet hit him. Just like a girl. And he’d cried in the emergency ward, while a beautiful young doctor worked feverishly to