THE ZOMBIE LOVER
by
Cindy Rosmus
For weeks
now . . . maybe months, Rudy walks the streets, aimlessly. But in his brain is
a picture of you. The you he lost,
once he died.
Einstein,
he called you, ‘cos you were
smarter than him. Read the classics, knew the answers on Jeopardy. “I’m
jealous,” he teased. Now those words would stick to
his throat. He’s lucky it hasn’t rotted, yet.
It’s Valentine’s
Day. Florists’ trucks pull up, bouquets pop out. Rudy reels. Even dead, he
hates the smell of roses. Those velvety red fucks. Always, the thorns pricked
his fingers. Delicate white fingers, he had, like a child pianist. He counts
them: all ten, he’s still got.
Chocolate, he
always loved. All kinds of sweets. He wanders into Chocolate World.
It’s mobbed. Everyone waiting for chocolate-dipped
strawberries, heart-shaped lollies. Something
special for that special someone.
Einstein,
he thinks.
The place smells delicious. Even more,
since he can’t eat. Worms wriggle in his stomach, but if he thinks about you, it’s
not so bad.
The door opens, and a delivery guy
breezes in with roses. Rudy almost gags.
He seems to walk right through Rudy, up
to a chick behind the counter. The best-looking one, though Rudy only has eyes
for you.
“Christina?” the guy guesses.
“Yeah?” she says.
A pimply kid brings out a tray of goodies:
teddy bears clutching chocolate roses. “Hey!” he says. “Say they’re from me!”
One customer laughs. “Score me some brownie points.”
“Fuck you!” Christina says.
More than ever, Rudy thinks that the
prettiest girls have the foulest mouths. Make guys feel like shit. But not you.
Nobody seems to know he’s there, but
he’s not invisible. As he holds up his hand, he sees he’s lost a finger.
Before the rest of them drop off, before
he sinks into a puddle of putrefaction, he’s got to find you.
As he leaves, he smiles at his
reflection in the window. The shades hide his empty eye sockets. He always wore
shades, even at night. How cool he used to be! But he’s not sure when that
changed.
He thinks you live up the block from
Scratch’s.
Joe, the day bartender, is in Scratch’s
doorway, smoking a Marlboro. In the old days, you could smoke anytime,
anywhere. Even in the hospital. Vaguely,
Rudy recalls someone dragging three IVs into the hallway, to light up.
As he passes Joe, the smoke chars what’s
left of Rudy’s lungs. Joe doesn’t even see him.
Einstein, Rudy thinks.
On your stoop, he oozes onto the top
step.
Summers, way back, you drank beers out
here. Sitting so close, his heart raced. Watching the moon together.
“Take off those shades, asshole!” the
moon might’ve said.
I
can’t, Rudy thinks.
He’s overcome with such sadness, he can’t fight it, anymore. Though his eyes
are gone, somehow he cries big, salty tears. . . .
*
*
*
When you walk outside, later, you almost
step in something foul. Like a giant
bug, or month-old garbage.
Your neighbor must’ve ruined his shoes. In
a rage, someone stepped on, mangled a pair
of sunglasses.
Rudy
. . . you think, blinking back
tears.
Above you, the moon has nothing to say.
THE END
