Page 5 of Palingenesis

Orange catches my attention, and I bend to pick up the crumpled flyer from the floor, my damp tee clinging to its stretch across my shoulders.

The back has been fucking stepped on, and I roll my eyes as I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth and flip the flyer over.

In bold letters that look handwritten and copied too many times, is a declaration of Firebird season with the festival's start time. Below that is a weird emblem of some kind that looks equally novice, maybe an old company logo that’s long since been updated. Hopefully.

What the fuck is this?

I’m assuming it’s in celebration of the phoenix legend, which seems odd. Most I know of are just a calendar marker of what used to be harvests of the local predominant agriculture, yearly reminders of dishes invented nearby, or area-specific music inspiration.

Or squatch. I’ve seen the love people have for the myth.

It’s never been a make-believe bird that burns to death and regenerates from its own ashes.

Seems painful.

Setting the flyer aside, I grab another runaway cookie and fish the hearing aids from my pocket so I can find Henry.

He’s in the second bedroom that will become my office, behind the desk I had delivered for me, with his laptop out and his phone against his ear.

He doesn’t even bother to look up when I rap on the doorframe. “What?” he snaps. “I’m working.”

His curt words and lack of eye contact are a jab that I shove down and step into the room.

“I’m gonna ride through town,” I say quietly, clasping my hands in front of me so I don’t sign to him accidentally without speaking out loud. “Grab some food. Check out the shops. See if I can’t find a couch.”

I hate that there’s a question lacing my tone, a deep-down longing that he’d hear my statement and, I don’t know, want to tag along with me like a proper couple would do. Maybe make the decisions together. Choosing our furniture and our meals jointly like it matters to both of us where we sit and what we eat.

But I don’t bother asking him to come. He won’t.

“Don’t pick out an ugly one.”

My already-slumped shoulders deflate. “Right.”

The automatic nod is more to myself than to him since he still hasn’t looked away from the screen, and I can’t help but feel that pull, yet again, to stop doing this. To stop reaching across the distance he keeps putting between us in hopes that one day he’ll grab my hand and come along.

It’s been like this for three goddamned years now, and he’s been cheating on me for two and a half of them.

Stupidly, I’d had hope that his attitude would change toward me, maybe even return to those first several months where things were good, and he’d forget all about the hole he left behind.

Yet I’m once again making my way out to my truck, alone, with a pit in my stomach and a void in my heart I know he’ll never fill again.

Shame on me.

It took longer to unload my few belongings from my truck than it did to drive back toward town.

The sourness remains in my gut but with each passing property, the vibrance grows. Blooming flowers and banners become more frequent, signs of the impending festival like glitter on the town.

Yet as I drive deeper between the old buildings in search of somewhere to park, I can feel the stares. A truck that doesn’t belong. A new face behind the wheel.

A weirdo with a pocket full of homemade cookies.

I finally pull over and climb out, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

There’s something heavy in the air, and maybe it’s just the mountains, but it feels … denser than I expected.

It takes me a full sixty seconds to lock up the truck and take a step.

No one is outright staring at me, just flitting glances as I walk the path, though I can feel the weight of their analyzing gazes.