Angel Hair

You just wish you could hold him. Feel his skin against yours. Press your warmth into him until the fibers of his muscles loosen, and he can’t leave. Because he always seems to leave.
           Today is no different. He’s not running, but only because he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to run because he’s not really here. You see him; he doesn’t see you.
           But you know you don’t see him. You see yourself. He’s a misheard song lyric that you later realized you liked more. You discovered you could write him better than anyone, so you did, and you kept that version. The one you see before you now, albeit slightly washed out by harsh fluorescent lighting.
           His hair is perfect, but that is no feat; it’s always been perfect. You smooth a lapel of his Navy blue suit and think with shame that we are quick to celebrate the pedestrian accomplishments of nincompoops yet only stop to appraise the perfect when they’ve faltered. That once excellence is reached it is no longer the goal but the expectation. We throw parades for those who’ve done the least while we gleefully spear the ribs of those who’ve slipped a toe off the highest pedestal.
           As you examine him closer you note his hair isn’t exquisitely perfect; there’s a piece of lint. Dander. You screw your face in consternation, and slowly reach a hand out to retrieve the errant fluff. From behind you hear gasps and pull your hand back, quickly. This place, this time, it isn’t for the two of you. As it has always been, you are sharing him.
           No, not today.
           Today you won’t share him. You reach out and pluck the interloper from his brow; he doesn’t resist. The pads of your forefinger and thumb brush his forehead as you close them on the imperfection. The contact shoots through to your brain instantly. Your breath falls away, as does the noise in the room. As does everything in the room.
           You want to look into his eyes but they’re closed. You just wish you could hold him. He looks so dapper in his suit, so regal. You’d think he was being given an award, drafted to a major sports team, announcing his candidacy for local office. His pocket square matches his tie: sky blue with chrysanthemums. You struggle to remember if he ever cared for flowers. You hastily conclude he didn’t, as you know he didn’t choose this ensemble himself.
           The tie and pocket square have a silky appearance, though you know them to be a polyester blend, much as the gathered folds that line his casket and cradle his head. You know beneath the perfect hair and smooth forehead, toward the base of the skull where the spine connects, there is a gob of modeling clay to plug the hole created by the exit wound. Tears form in your eyes as a part of your brain, one you don’t know particularly well or like at all, is telling you that you want to see the patch-work. You shake your head as the room begins to settle in around you, first with the cold blast of the high air conditioning vents, then the murmur and sniffles of a congregation behind you.
           Your eyes blink and he’s still here, but he’s not. You look at his dark lips, remembering that his mouth is sewn shut from the inside. You wish you hadn’t spent most of the prior evening on the Internet researching the practices of morticians, but that part of your brain is stubborn. And loud. His skin still looks supple, pliable; like cocoa butter. You know it isn’t but it looks that way. You want to touch him again, feel your skin ignite against his, but you’re beginning to overstay your welcome.
           Yes, even today, you are sharing him.
           You linger, looking now at the fluff between your fingers. What is it? Frayed stitching from the coffin liner? Gauze from the mortician’s session? The parachute of a dandelion seed? The smallest feather of an angel?
           You feel a gentle hand at the back of your right shoulder, nudging you to move on. You do so without resistance, staring at the unidentified white intruder in your fingers. You’d plucked it from his immaculate black hair, so he could be perfect for the next person to stare down at him. That in seeing him so free of error, they’d drop their spear, and smile at their met expectations. That the perfect will always be so because that is how we’ve written them.
           You just wish that you could hold him. Hold him so he can’t leave. Because he always seems to leave.