Hugh

Hugh woke up that morning on the living room couch. His fingertips smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, and his eyelids were bound together by the dread of starting the day. It was Sunday morning, but you could have told Hugh it was Thursday evening, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.

At 7:35, the wind blew tree branches against the living room window, scratching at the glass like a housecat. I watched from the kitchen as he grunted and squirmed on the couch like a worm burrowing through dirt. How could someone look so good even at their worst? I thought to myself. Why had I let him in last night, and how was I going to get him out before Tiff came home from her trip? How does one unlove a person like Hugh?

I slipped on my boots, threw on his beige coat, and stepped outside. The air stung my cheeks as I scanned the ground. A handful of pebbles caught my eye, almost too perfect to throw. “Waking someone who sleeps like a rock with rocks,” I muttered, tossing the first pebble lightly at the window. “Ironic.” The first pebble landed softly, but by the fifth, I worried I’d shatter the glass and expose Hugh to the frigid air. I knew exchanging words face to face would lead to us fucking on the wooden floors. That’s why I needed to wake him from afar.

I stared at the last pebble in my hand, thinking of the breakfasts Hugh used to cook us on Sundays—pancake stacks with fruit laid out meticulously on the edges of his “Made in Japan” plates. They were good—good enough for me to keep sleeping over on Saturday nights. He made jokes that would fly over most people’s heads, as if they were curated just for me. His chest hair was brown, curly, and played peek-a-boo with the neckline of his garments. He made people fall in love with him without ever trying and was always surprised to discover how much people enjoyed his presence. Despite all the love surrounding him, he always felt so alone. He would cancel plans, make excuses, and fall off the face of the earth for days at a time. It was best to know Hugh from a distance; that’s where he wanted people to see him—that’s where he looks his best.

I broke my gaze and felt the emptiness in my stomach. I couldn’t go back in, so I started my morning. The Counter is a small diner with one cook, Miranda—a 74-year-old woman who always remembered my breakfast order but insisted on calling me Lillie instead of Lindsay. My order consisted of two sunny-side-up eggs, potato wedges, and thick-cut bacon, crispy enough that if someone closed their eyes, it would sound like I was eating a bag of chips. I usually had my latte with oat milk but settled for filter coffee whenever I was there.

The block was quiet that morning. My breath was clearly visible, and the wind whistled like that construction worker on 9th Avenue. Walking to the diner, I couldn’t help but watch people start their day inside their homes. In my mind, these people’s lives were perfect, flawless. The only time they shed a tear was from an overwhelming feeling of happiness or the death of a loved one. There was no in-between. I cried watching a kid laugh the other day. What does that say about me?

I walked into the diner. The bells hanging from the door hinge greeted me at the same time as Miranda did; somehow, the bells seemed more cheerful. I sat down, let out a subtle sigh, and said, “Morning, Mira.”

Miranda looked at me with her small, wrinkled eyes and whispered, “What’s the matter, Lillie? You look awful.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m depressed, Mira. Do I look depressed?”

“You look like shit,” she said, her hand twitching as she poured coffee the color of used motor oil into the chipped navy mug. “The usual?” she asked, throwing four slices of bacon on the flattop.

“Sure,” I replied, knowing it would be a horrible day to try something new. I pulled out my phone and texted Hugh: Morning sunshine, as much as I enjoyed seeing you sleep on the couch last night, you need to leave the house before Tiff comes home. P.S. What’s your new perfume called? You smelled like a baby’s ass this morning.

I closed my phone, knowing his reply would leave me wanting more, intoxicating me with his wit and charm. Miranda one-handedly placed my breakfast in front of me as if she were a doctor administering medication to a patient.

She smiled and said, “You seem like a person who makes things harder than they need to be.”

I smiled back and told her, “It’s never too late to become a therapist, Miranda.”

She laughed, her shoulders shuffling with each chuckle, and walked back to her wooden chair, starting to knit. Once, she knitted me a sweater that must have been made from 100% ant legs. I wrapped it up and gave it to Hugh, who wore it often. Maybe all that body hair left no room for the ant legs to move.

I glanced down at my plate and saw a smiley face made with the eggs, bacon, and potatoes. “I love your art,” I shouted.

“You should frame it,” she said, never taking her hands or her small, wrinkled eyes off her knitting needles. I ate the smiley face, hoping that it would somehow make me less miserable. “How much do I owe you for the art?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t charge me today.

“Well, seeing that I feel worse than when you came in, leave a 20, and we’re square.” I laughed, knowing what I ordered costed $9.80 and has stayed the same price for over 5 years now. I reached into Hugh’s left jacket pocket and placed a wrinkled 20 on the bar.

I planted both feet on the ground and pushed through the strong gusts of wind that had placed themselves on the outside door. I reached again into Hugh’s jacket, took a cigarette, and placed it between my dry lips. I hate how much I enjoy smoking a cigarette; I hadn’t smoked in months. The taste of tobacco always reminded me of him. His jacket had a small hole in the armpit, so I walked with my hands tied to my sides like a soldier scared of the wind. I got to the front door of my apartment and placed my head on it, not wanting to open and face whatever noise was inside. My head was heavy, my eyes were closed, and a single tear fell from my eye. Fucking wind, I thought to myself while brushing my wet cheek.

That was Hugh, a big fucking gust of wind, tearing everything up and leaving behind a mess I always had to clean up. I rested my head on the cold door for a few minutes. If he opened the door right this instant, I’d be forced to fall into his arms; I simply would have no control over the matter, leaving our story completely in his hands.