Thank you to catbrown and searchingforperfection for editing this story. Once again, any remaining errors or problems are my responsibility.
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The bone-white clouds hung in the sky: moist, cold and seemingly eternal. Alarmed at his turn of thought, Paul rubbed his eyes and forced his imagination elsewhere. The breeze coming off the small lake was too weak for his liking, and the water was too still.
Where were the sounds of animals and the summer wind, he wondered? He should hear the odd fish breaking the surface, or birds chirping, or his distant neighbours splashing about and laughing near their own docks, but everything was silent.
Uncrossing his ankles, he settled back in the deck chair and let his head hang back. Yesterday there'd been rain, and he'd sat in it unmoving until the drops, partially frozen from their overlong stay in the stratosphere, had become too painful to ignore. There was no rain today. There was only this stillness that threatened to bring back the memories that Paul fought to bury.
He sat straight up and opened his eyes. He missed the sky. He missed the way that a summer sky could appear almost indigo directly above and yet fade to a very pale blue as your eyes dropped to the horizon.
Her eyes had been that same pale blue before they'd gone out forever.
Paul grabbed at the book he'd set beside the wooden chair. He took a deep breath and opened the Bible to a random page. There'd been an internal debate about which reading material to bring out onto the dock. His own past favourites, Clive Cussler and Ian Fleming, just couldn't keep his mind from wandering to more emotional matters. The Bible was something that he could concentrate on; he found it so boring that he had to focus on every word just to keep following the stories.
Job.
He slammed the book shut with a grunt. After taking a few seconds to calm down he opened the book again.
Lot!
He slammed the Bible shut a second time, stood, and with a roar of rage hurled the offending tome as far out into the lake as he could. It fluttered briefly at the top of its arc, before flipping and then dropping like a stone. The small splash was completely unsatisfying, but in a way Paul had found the mere act of violence, as minor as it had been, somewhat soothing. He was breathing slowly and deeply as he stared out at the lake, watching the brief-lived ripples expand and diminish.
The metaphor raised a fury in him the likes of which he'd never felt before. The deck chair, despite its mass and bulkiness, followed the bible into the lake.
What prevented the rest of his belongings from being drowned in the lake was the remembrance that all human toil results in so little and lasts for fleeting seconds in the lifetime of the universe. What was the point of anything? He pondered that as he shuffled his way back into his home, the one that Rachel and he had bought after she had confided it was her lifelong dream to have a getaway such as this.
She had only set foot in it once, just before they had bought it. The insurance money had ensured that Paul would never have to work again and could spend the rest of his life tucked away from the world here, in what would have been their home.
He went to the bedroom and stared at the queen-sized bed. He couldn't bring himself to lie down on it. It had taken all of his willpower to just make the bed. Without a thought for dinner Paul went to the chesterfield, where he had slept every night since moving in.
The sound of men's voices woke him. He glanced at the silent electronic clock and then groaned when he realized it was already past ten in the morning. He rubbed his eyes, to give them time to adjust to the sunlight shining in through the windows.
Paul spent a few minutes in the washroom, enough time to use the toilet, wash his hands, think about having a shower, and think about shaving. Then he shuffled toward the kitchen. With a small sigh he noticed that he hadn't changed into his pyjamas the night before. He shrugged in resignation, then made himself some dry toast and poured a glass of water to wash it down.
The voices continued outside, but Paul ignored them. What was outside was outside his world, and therefore was no concern of his.
After he finished breakfast he rinsed and dried the plate and glass, and then turned to the sliding glass doors to head back to the dock. He stopped as he recalled there was now no chair to sit in and no book to read. This break in his routine jarred him. How long had he been living like this? This was July-something, and hadn't he arrived in early April?
Paul ran his hand across his chin and then quickly pulled his fingers away, surprised at the beard he'd felt. The washroom mirror showed him an unfamiliar face. He picked up his razor, and after staring at it for a long and dangerous minute, he carefully set it down and began to attack his whiskers with a pair of scissors first. Once he was clean-shaven he turned on the shower and set the water to very hot. He took his time stripping and then jumped in all at once, gritting his teeth as the water reddened his skin. He adjusted the water to merely hot and proceeded to clean himself thoroughly. The water began to go cold before he finished.
He threw on his bathrobe, after searching through a couple of cardboard boxes to find it. He felt physically better. Paul walked around the house, making mental notes of all the little jobs that needed doing. Rachel would have already given him a list. That thought made him pause. He squeezed his hands painfully tight and forced the memories away.
There were no more voices outside. Paul poked his head out the front door, but saw only the large, gently undulating yard, the smoothly paved driveway leading to the front of the house, the white wooden fence bordering his property, and the large oak near the road that towered over all of the other trees on his and his neighbours' land. Whatever had gone on was over with, and good riddance to it he thought.
He found his cell phone in his jacket and considered turning it back on. Standing there in thought, it occurred to him that there was no-one he really wanted to talk to. The phone was dropped onto a coffee table. He debated going into town, but dropped the idea, as he had a ready excuse not to make the trip: he hadn't completely emptied the fridge yet.
Sweep the floor, he reminded himself. Like a robot, he grabbed the broom from the small closet off the main hall and began pushing dust around the house. He soon realized that he was only stirring up small clouds of debris and spreading them around. With a determined look he began to concentrate on the task. Room by room he coaxed the dust into the centre of each, where he then used a dustpan to transfer dirt out into his backyard. After he noticed cobwebs floating in the mild breezes that he had stirred up, he collected them for transferral into the backyard as well.
At last he was finished. The broom was returned to where it had been and, feeling as if he had accomplished something for the first time in a long time, Paul opened the sliding glass doors and went into his backyard. A small group of ducks quacked angrily and flew off. Their wingbeats sounded supernaturally loud. Paul strode down to the lake and listened to the gentle sound of the waves as they played across the pebbles.
Was cleaning the house an insult to Rachel's memory? Was going on with life? How important had she really been to him? The questions ate away at him. Hadn't he promised to love her forever? Hadn't she been everything to him? Why was he still alive now that she was gone?
Voices from the front yard interrupted his reverie. Paul closed his eyes and tried to shut the world out.
He actually succeeded for a few minutes - until someone rang the doorbell.
A few seconds passed where he considered just ignoring the visitor. It wasn't curiosity that made him turn back to his house and go inside, it was annoyance at the intrusion. The doorbell rang again just as he threw open the door.
"What do you want?" he asked angrily.
The two young men who appeared to be employed by the town, adorned in orange and yellow vests over their jeans and t-shirts, and the thirty-something brunette, dressed in slacks and a loose-fitting white top, were all taken aback at his tone.
"Uhm, sir? Sorry to bother you. But your wife here..." began one of the young men. Paul could see some more mature civic workers leaning on a pick-up truck parked at the end of his driveway. Clearly, they'd sent the younger ones to do the dirty work.
"I'm not his wife!" interrupted the woman, wrinkling her nose at the speaker.
