We wrote THE NEST in letter-shaped coat hooks by the front door.
We laughed a lot while we decorated. We goofed off a lot. I think I was almost happy, except when Hannah had to go to work.
I followed her around as she showered and dressed.
"My sweet shadow," she said, kissing me slowly before slipping out the door.
I was anything but sweet in Hannah's absence. The Librium dragged me into a nap, after which I ranged through the condo feeling sick.
Writing was out of the question.
Hannah paid special attention to our "office" furnishings, making me choose the desk and transition my whole library over, but that didn't inspire me to write.
Nothing did.
More often than not, I avoided the room. The only thing I actually wrote was a letter to Wendy. I thanked her for her transcription services and included a check. Severance pay, I called it. I apologized for my hasty departure and promised to visit one day.
Another loose end tied up. What now? I felt like a dog waiting for his master to come home. Five o'clock rolled around and I stood on the balcony watching for Hannah.
Once, I got it in my head to follow her to work. I thought I might feel better being closer to her. I trailed her into the agency and deposited myself on a bench in the lobby.
Pam found me there, of course.
"Matthew." She looked at me quizzically. "How wonderful to see you."
"Mm. Hi Pam." I picked at the cuff of my sleeve.
"Are you—" She glanced around the empty lobby. "Did you need to see me?"
"No, just sitting."
"Ah." Pam blinked and nodded.
God, go away Pam. I was counting down the seconds until she asked about my writing, but she never did.
"Well, it's great to see you, again." She pat-squeezed my shoulder. I was starting to hate that gesture. Nothing says I view you as an invalid quite like the shoulder pat-squeeze.
As if the run-in with Pam weren't enough, a tour group appeared in the lobby a few hours later. They were mostly college-aged—probably a creative writing class.
I angled my body toward the wall.
The tour guide's voice began to drone.
"The Granite Wing Agency is one of Denver's literary landmarks. It was founded—"
"Oh my god!" a student enthused. I heard footfalls approaching. A young woman came to stand practically on my feet. "Are you—? Oh my god. Can you—? Oh my god, it's M. Pierce."
The tour group closed in like a school of piranhas. I was off the Librium by then and my Xanax was at the condo. Basically I was fucked.
M. Pierce, M. Pierce, M. Pierce. It was all I could hear.
Little did those assholes know, my pen name had become a source of major anxiety for me. I never wanted to hear it. It reminded me of losing Hannah, and it made me feel like I was losing her again.
"Please," I mumbled, my ears ringing.
Even the tour guide was soliciting my attention.
"Leave him alone!" Hannah's voice echoed through the lobby. I was on my feet facing the corner, my head in my hands.
Hannah collided with the cluster of students and body checked the young woman into a wall. She threw her arms around me.
"Baby, come on."
She guided me out of the building.
After that, I rarely left the condo.
Hannah was careful never to ask about my writing, though sometimes I saw her riffling through my pages. She probably assumed I was writing on the computer. I let her think so.
We watched movies together, my favorites and hers—Legends of the Fall, Wonder Boys, Good Will Hunting.
We read aloud to one another.
Hannah tried to teach me how to cook. Pan-fried pork chops ended with me lying on the kitchen floor, covered in flour.
On Halloween, we went to her parents' house and handed out candy, watching the trick-or-treaters from the porch.