She Was Right
Behind You

Sunday, 6:40 AM. The coffee's done. She's at the counter in the shirt she slept in.

Last night was good. The real kind. The two of you at the table long after the plates were cleared, talking the way you used to before the schedule ate the evenings. She laughed at something you said. Not the polite laugh. The real one.

And now, before the first sip, it's already in your mouth.

"We good?"

There was a singer once. The best who ever lived. Orpheus. When he played, wild animals came out of the trees to listen.

Right after the wedding, his wife walked out into the grass and a snake bit her on the ankle. She was gone before the flowers wilted.

So he did what nobody does. He walked down into the underworld, stood in front of the king and queen of the dead, and sang. He didn't ask them to give her back for good. He asked for a loan. Everyone ends up down here anyway, he said. Let me have her for the years she had coming.

The dead wept. The man who pushes the rock sat down on it. The Furies, who had never cried at anything, had wet faces.

They said yes. One condition. Walk out ahead of her. Don't look back until you're in the light.

The hard part worked.

He sang death into tears. The answer was yes. She was real, and she was walking right behind him. All he had to do was keep going.

The path up was dark and steep, and he couldn't hear her behind him. Nothing to prove she was there.

He was almost out. He could see the edge of the light. And he got scared she wasn't keeping up, and he wanted to see her face, both at once. So he turned around.

She slipped back down. He reached for her and caught air.

The song worked. He lost her on the easy part.

You know this walk.

The good stuff doesn't come with footsteps. The talk at the table. The kid who told you about his day without being asked. It happens, and then it goes quiet, and the quiet feels like something's wrong.

So you check. "We good?" "You sure?" "You'd tell me, right?" You read last night's text one more time to make sure it says what you thought it said.

The thing you don't trust is that something went right.

And the question does exactly what the myth says it does. She was fine a second ago. Now she has to stop and think about whether she's fine. "Why? Should we not be?"

Just like that, last night is a question instead of something that happened.

When she slipped back, she didn't blame him. She had no complaint at all. One last goodbye he could barely hear, and she was gone.

She never blamed him. What was there to blame, except that he loved her?

Nobody at home is mad at you for asking either. It's considerate. It's also the look back. Every time, the good thing goes down a step, and nobody says a word about it, because you asked out of love.

He begged to go back down. The ferryman wouldn't take him. He sat on the riverbank seven days without eating.

The first time she died, it was a snake. The second time, it was a glance.