The Shape of Her Footprints by Lindsay Cobb

The day I went to Gillian's house to tell her we were through, the weather was warm and clear, not a cloud in the wide, blue sky. I rang the doorbell several times, but when she didn't answer, I let myself in with my key. She seemed to be out. In this unexpected solitude, I paused idly, ran my fingers over a cool silk blouse tossed over the back of an easy chair, rehearsed my lines.

Finally I stepped onto the back porch and saw her across the yard, trimming her hedges. A straw hat shaded her eyes. I stood watching a few minutes; she seemed not to notice me, but worked the shears with sharp, deliberate chops, her jaw clenched.

When I called Gillian's name, she looked up from her work calmly, eyebrows raised. She said she'd been wondering how long I was going to just stand there. I walked over and, without much preamble, told her what I'd come to say, hands in my pockets, trying to sound resolute but gentle, firm but sympathetic. . . . She stared at me a few seconds, with no emotion that I could detect, and then, looking away, she let out a deep sigh, tossed her shears to one side, and began to pull off a gardening glove. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," she muttered. "I had a feeling you were gearing up for this."

I started to turn, to go away--what more could I do?--when an odd movement caught my eye, and I turned back. Slowly, as Gillian pulled off the other glove and dropped it to the ground, she began to float straight up into the air. I stepped back, blinked. At first I thought the sight was a trick of the noonday sun, or the breeze fluttering her denim skirt, but no--her feet were dangling in midair, the grass below them still matted down in the shape of her footprints, and now she hovered twelve inches, maybe more, and she continued talking.

"What really gets me," she spat, her voice gaining in strength and anguish, "is how utterly heartless you're being about this. After all the talking, after all the work we've done together, that you could just drop me like a stone, or as if you were made of stone." I called, "Gillian, you don't understand! Can't you see what's happening?"

"I guess not, I guess I never did," she said. Tears fell six or seven feet to the lawn like fat summer raindrops. Finally she called, "So go on, leave! I don't care if I never see you again."

I shielded my eyes from the sun. "Looks like you'll get your wish," I shouted.

At this, she swiped off her straw hat and threw it at me, but the breeze snatched it and dropped it into the birdbath. Gillian was so high now, I could see the yellow soles of her feet, tinged with soil and grass stains. She had begun to cry in earnest, sobbing into her hands, rising higher. I watched her sail over the roof of her house, then I ran down the driveway, watching until she disappeared above a willow across the street. A young woman coasted past on a bicycle, with a child in a pink helmet strapped into a seat behind her. Next door, an old man in suspenders watered his lawn with a garden hose.

I finally lowered my hand from shielding my eyes, and realized I was hungry; so I walked up Gillian's front steps, let myself in a second time, made a sandwich from some leftover roast beef in her fridge, and opened a bottle of beer. I sat at the table for a long time, simply eating and drinking, thumbing through the pages of a sci-fi paperback she'd left out. I replayed the scene between us over and over, but could make no sense out of it.

After a time, I wandered out to the back yard, retrieved her shears and other tools, pulled her hat from the birdbath. When I'd carried everything inside, I wandered from room to room, trying to decide what to do next. Eventually I sat down in the easy chair, resting my head against her silk blouse, and turned on the television. I caught the tail end of a basketball game, then a golf tournament and some action flick, and after that I was hungry again. Back in the kitchen, I found some spaghetti and red wine, and I cooked myself a good meal. After all that, and some more t.v., driving home was out of the question, so I went upstairs to bed. Clean sheets--she must have changed them that morning.

In the following weeks, I brought over a few changes of clothes every day, until my entire wardrobe was there. I also brought over my CDs and videos, shampoo and electric razor and other stuff, my scotch and my weights. I gave notice on my apartment, began paying the mortgage on Gillian's house, and gradually slipped into a comfortable new routine, buying groceries, vacuuming, washing dishes. Eventually my new girlfriend moved in. We threw parties, we lounged around in the backyard on Sunday afternoons. One afternoon the following spring, I was lying on a blanket in the back yard, catching some rays. My eyes were closed languorously to the sun, a warm breeze played across my torso. The hedges were higher now: I never had much of a green thumb, and I'd let them go wild, the lawn also. Various household chores had gone by the wayside as well, with the advent of warmer weather. I didn't mind, I could do what I liked. I sighed a great sigh from my belly.

As I lay there, a shadow passed over my closed eyelids, and suddenly, I felt a weight press down on my chest, as if someone were standing on me. I gasped, my eyes shot open. Her silhouette was black above me, blocking the sun, and her hair blew wild in the breeze.

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