by Joshua Monroe
After making love, he usually went straight to his desk by the bed, typed away on his refurbished typewriter. An heirloom from one of his clients—he mentioned that once. While he typed, apparently unaware of the previous moments and of my cheeks, still flushed, I liked to imagine he was writing a novel. He would change my name to something more feminine than Cheryl. I have always disliked my name.
But he wasn’t exploring the collective unconscious through parallel stories set in different cities, only connecting at the end. He wasn’t smoking a cigarette and getting lost in a character who reminded him of an ex-lover. His pale, almost-swollen hands were not cramping from relentless inspiration. He was sneaking out of bed to be a workaholic, and a word processor at that. A typist, he corrected me often.
I’m leaving him in ten days. Something like that. As soon as payday comes, so I can afford a first month’s rent in the city, away from the stale gray suburbs. Away from him. Once the thought first appeared, it took a month and a half for me to decide. A month and a half after looking over his doughy, naked shoulder to see what exactly it was that demanded an around-the-clock “typist.”
Rows and rows of names. The font was cold, like his breath somehow seemed to be. He said that I would not want to know. I said I did, so he explained. The name of a dog walker in Berlin, a retired electrician in Argentina, a baby in Thailand, and on and on. Those were the names of every person who died that day. “I can tell you how they went if you’d like. I can tell you if they felt it.” His round, sober face was completely uncorrupted by the cruel words he said. Death is a typist in the suburbs of Indianapolis, and I am leaving him in ten days.
What do you tell Death when you want to leave him? Will he threaten to write my name down with his little vintage typewriter? No. The day after revealing his job to me, he reassured me, while we kissed, that his job was to take, not choose. “I just write the names.” His hands cupped the back of my head, gently, justified by his words, heavy.
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Nine months after moving to the city, I still wonder most days what he does with his brief moments of spare time without me occupying it. Although, it’s probably best he doesn’t have any distractions now. I’m sure this has been a busy season for him. What a damned time to move to a city, I thought, putting a mask over my mouth and nose.
I felt a tickle in my throat this morning, so today I wonder what he will do when his back is arched inward slightly in perfect posture and my name is spelled at 200 words a minute onto firm cardstock.
as she fell asleep she felt the spirits of this place blowing air across her face
by David John Baer McNicholas
Joshua Monroe is a writer from South Carolina. His poetry has been featured in the Living Zine and he recently self-published his debut comic book. His work often includes aspects of magical realism.
David John Baer McNicholas has authored a novel, Lemons: In an Orchard. He operates the nascent imprint ghostofamerica ltd co and studies for his BFA in creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe. His work can be found at poets.org and Panorama Travel Journal.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 