Souls of Acheron
An insomniac walks into a museum
Content warnings1
When you left, I stopped sleeping.
Scenes of our time together kept playing in my head, the same handful of moments: your semiprofile at the breakfast table, your long wet hair before you went to blow it dry and tie it up, the sound of your melodic laugh after I'd said something funny and finally, your retreating back at the station.
I wanted to preserve them as snapshots in my mind, wanted to hold on to every second with you, and so I traded sleep for reminiscence.
When work was slow in the afternoons, which was far too often and far too taxing for my insomniac brain, I begged off and went to the art history museum. Sometimes I simply wandered through the high-ceilinged rooms with their larger-than-life masterworks until closing time. Sometimes I didn't focus on the art at all but on the people, imagining their lives and relationships. Sometimes I tracked a single detail through several rooms, like forlorn wisps of Lana Del Rey playing through invisible speakers (I might have imagined that one). Most often, though, I walked straight to the bench in front of Souls of Acheron and sat.
"Why are they all clinging to Hermes like that? Don't they know they're already dead?" you'd asked.
"No, I think they know but they're still frightened. Death is one of the last unknowns. Back then most people probably believed they'd be punished for their sins. They're terrified but Charon is already coming to row them over the river in his barge. There at the edge, see?"
"Would you be afraid of the underworld?" you'd asked as if you'd never seen me as anything but courageous.
"No, but you know I'm not religious. I'm afraid of dying though."
"Why?"
"Life is infinitely exciting by nature," I'd said slowly, testing out the words, pointing. "These dead souls, they can't help but be drawn to Hermes. He's alive and radiant, while they're already dead. Who wouldn't want him to take them back up?"
"I guess you're right," you'd said but you'd waited for me to walk on.
Sitting in front of the painting, I replayed our conversations word for word. I made up conversations we'd never had, about things I wished I could tell you, discuss with you or ask your opinion on: the book I'd read that weekend, my mother's dog, some story a friend had told me over coffee, the new client I'd brought in whose order was more of a challenge than I'd thought, but a welcome one.
We had spent so many days together but in the end, there was always more to know about someone you treasure. It was never enough. I hungered for more and so my imagination (always overactive) supplied.
I always stayed later at the museum than I would've at the office. When they announced they would be closing in fifteen minutes, I left and bought a bite to eat on the way home.
When the breeze carried not frost but the first fragrance of grass and flowerbuds, my old teacher invited me to lunch on the following Saturday. I'd planned to work through the day, anything to distract myself, but he'd sounded so excited on the phone, I didn't have the heart to decline.
My teacher opened with a huge grin on his face and when he stepped aside, there you stood. You looked like photo collage, too tall for the small kitchen. I think I gasped. When you opened your arms, I hurled myself at you, forgetting my teacher was even in the room. "What are you doing here?" I finally squealed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
You grinned your boyish grin. "I needed time to process but I've thought everything through now. If you still want to be my girlfriend…"
I gave the obvious answer. Grinning like idiots, we sat at the table while our teacher served dish after delicious dish, cackling and saying he'd always known we'd end up together. Of course he had, we said. Of course he had.
Death, corpses