Would You Stay
George Nevgodovskyy
When Bean died you texted me back right away and said you wanted to scatter her ashes together. We’d had barely any contact in months. She was twenty-two – old, even for a European Shorthair. I put the bean bag chair that was her namesake up for free on Facebook Marketplace, and on the day you and I decided to meet, some hipster named Paul messaged about picking it up. I told him that I’d leave it on my front porch, and having neglected my Facebook account, was jarred seeing my words beneath the old name and profile photo. An unreplaced plank on Theseus’ ship.
I knew if I kept the chair around it would remind me too much of Bean, our old life. She imprinted on that thing the first time we brought her home, got all hostile if either of us went near it. We lived like that for years, but soon as you moved out, I wanted a factory reset. New furniture, dishware, coat of paint. Our house was unrecognizable and so was I. The only thing left now was Bean’s chair. Soon, that would be gone, too.
We met in a quiet park near your new place, and I was impressed by how well you hid your surprise. We’d done a good job giving each other space. Maybe too good. Last time you saw me I had short hair, unpolished nails, beard scruff instead of makeup. Now I had longer eyelashes and smoother legs than you did.
We used to go through morbid hypotheticals – would you stay if I became a paraplegic, blind, disfigured. Would I stay if you lost an arm, had Alzheimer, couldn’t carry children. The answer was always yes. It had to be. But when I finally came out you said you couldn’t stay if I transitioned. Good thing I never got maimed by a fucking car, I guess. In the end, it turned out Bean was the only one who truly didn’t give a shit. Who actually stayed.
As I handed you the urn my fingers grazed your wedding ring. Maybe you thought it was a phase. Maybe you secretly hoped I’d come here and take it all back. That we’d make up and you’d move in again and everything would be like before. We watched Bean’s body dissipate across the sky, the grass, and when you cried I wondered who you were really mourning – Bean, or Ray.
I felt like a dick serving you divorce papers after putting it off so long. Before you took them from my hands you asked if we can still stay in each other’s lives. I didn’t know how to answer and told you so. You looked defeated. You wiped your eyes, grabbed the documents, took off.
When I got home the chair was still on my porch. I plopped down and saw a Facebook message: wife says we don’t have space. thx anyway. Paul, you fucker. Then a text from you, all sterile and grammatically correct: It was good to see you today, Rachel. I’m happy for you and wish you the best.
I smiled and sat for a while, watching cars go by, thinking about the day we first moved in, how excited we were to have a house with a front porch. We brought out two dining chairs and some red, drinking straight from the bottle because we were too lazy to go searching through boxes. The next morning we were on our hands and knees, scrubbing the wine we spilled onto the wood.
When it got dark I brought Bean’s chair back inside and took down the Facebook ad. Some things could stay, I decided. Maybe they needed to. I got into bed, reread your text. Then I replied: u too! let’s do it again sometime. minus the dead cat.
George Nevgodovskyy was born in Kiev, Ukraine, but has lived in Vancouver, Canada for most of his life. He has previously been published in East of the Web, Rejection Letters, Eunoia Review, trampset, and others. He does his best writing after everyone has gone to sleep. Check out more of his work at georgenev.blogspot.com
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