CHAPTER NINE
When Harry gets back, he responds back to the note I had written, but I make no move to see what it is that he wrote. I watch as he cooks chicken in the pan on the stove and eats it in silence, and then sets out another plate and puts a glass of water beside it and the note by it. I don’t smile or even acknowledge the gesture. I stay under his bed and when he gets under his duvet and puts his book on the shelf and turns out the light, I still stay under, not going to eat the chicken or drink the water or read the note or write a thank you back. I stay in my place and look at the springs, wondering what would happen if they were to collapse.
On the second day, Harry wakes up and walks to the kitchen, looking at the plate full of chicken and the glass full of water, slightly higher than it was last night due to the ice melting. He looks hurt, but I don’t care because I’m pretty hurt, too. Not in the same way though, he’s hurt from rejection, I’m hurt from fear.
He takes the plate and sadly scoops the chicken into the trash, taking the plate and putting in the sink. He sits at the table and takes a sip from the water that’s slightly higher than it was last night. He reads over the note, and then adds something onto it. He then leaves and I don’t see him until later in the afternoon.
He cooks a different meal tonight. It looks like pasta, and he scoops a big portion onto a plate and eats, then puts a smaller portion on another plate, places the note next to it and a glass of water. He then goes to bed without reading and I still don’t get up. Instead, I stare at the springs and think about the metaphor of the ice compared to my life.
On the third day when Harry gets up, he’s really sad. Sadder than he was yesterday and after he puts the plate in the sink and drinks the water, he goes and sits in the closet talking to the walls about how they don’t like chicken or spaghetti or water and he talks about how you can’t live without water in an attempt to make them laugh, but they just stare back at him, just like how I stare at him.
He doesn’t leave on the third day. He reads and lounges around, working on papers and occasionally talking to the walls again.
That night when he goes to bed and puts his book on the shelf and turns out the light with a plate of pancakes and bacon on the table, I stare at the springs and wonder about Harry’s sanity.
It’s on the fourth day that I get out from under the bed after Harry has left for some classes. He said he wouldn’t be back until after one, but I don’t know if that information was for the walls or for me.
I look over the letter I had written to Harry and wonder if I should give it to him right now or wait like I had earlier. I thought I had gotten over my fears this morning, but it feels like they’re swallowing me up again.
It’s when I think about the melting ice and my life, and how if I wait to long, everything will melt and I won’t have any more time to think about everything that I decide I should man up. I act on my actions and set the letter on the table, filling up a glass with water and adding some ice, drinking all the water and watching the ice melt. But it doesn’t melt all the way before it’s one and I go back to the bed, going under it and watching as Harry walks in.
It’s then that everything settles in that Harry is actually going to see the full letter I had written and I’ll have to act upon that, too, or else the ice will melt and it will be too late.
So I snap out of my zombie haze and watch as Harry walks in and sees the glass full of ice that’s half melted and watch as he sets his bag down by his bed, and then walks to the table, picking up the glass and seeing the letter on the table also.
He quickly sets the glass in the sink and rushes over to pick up the letter that I’m pretty proud of. It doesn’t mention anything about the past couple of days because those were just side effects of the whole shock that, whoa, this is actually happening. I snap my fingers for the last time in a while, hopefully.
