The View from Here, by Melanie Maggard

Automat, by Edward Hopper (USA) 1927

The View from Here
 
I haven’t seen Damion today, or yesterday, or last week, and I’m worried. I’ve been sitting here as long as I can recall, at the same blue table, sipping the same cup of coffee. My mind races with concerns, and I ache to see him again.
 
I met him three years ago, when I arrived to live here with him. He settled me into a delightful spot facing the garden. I’ve spent hours watching the light travel across leaves and flowers, creating a kaleidoscope of colours before it reaches towards me across the floor, slides up the wall, and then skips across my face. The light warms me, even if only briefly before the dark comes.

I peer into the coffee cup before me, realizing I neglected to take the black satin glove off one of my hands again, a habit I was born with. I’m unsure why I do it. My memory and my existence is limited, yet punctuated by the men in my life.
 
I recall living with two men before Damion. The most recent wasn’t kind, only looking my way when a guest would remark on my beauty or how sad I looked. I didn’t stay with him for long; he didn’t seem to have as much of a need for me as he did money. I was worth more to someone else.

Before that was the first man in my life - Edward. I rested in the middle of his studio, a place that, according to him, had the ideal amount of light. I didn’t exist before Edward. Some might call him my father, but that is not the best word to characterize him. Father assumes there is a mother and I don’t have one of those. He created me from a memory of his first love and made me in her image. He beamed at me as I was being born. I had to look perfect, he told me. Edward often spoke to me, much like the new man in my life. He told me how he was feeling, what he was thinking. He asked me questions, and I longed to answer.

My affection for Edward was one of respect and gratitude. He created the form and stability I needed to exist. But how I love my Damion is special; he is my soulmate. When he is here, he talks to me as if he sees me. Even though I can never reply, he gives me time to consider my response. His glances are full of adoration, and my pulse quickens whenever he enters the room. He ensures I am in excellent shape and have a pleasant view, that I am surrounded by fine things to keep me company when he is away.
 
The apartment is lonely and cold. The only person I see now is the woman who cleans each week, but she avoids looking at me. She concentrates on her job, pushing and pulling a noisy contraption across the floor. She annoys me by thrusting feathers in my face while telling me she doesn’t understand why Damion likes me so much, that I’m not special. Maybe she is right, maybe I’m not unique. He has probably forgotten about me, left me here as he moves on with his life somewhere else, with someone else.
 
A man removes me from my place. His plump, cracked fingers wrap me in brown paper. I tremble in the blackness that envelops me. The light no longer dances across my face. I am forgetting the sound of Damion’s voice and the way he looked at me. Without him, I’m fading. I’m still alone, still sitting at this table, still staring at my image reflected on the surface of my coffee.  I’m stuck here, waiting for him to see me again.
 
Melanie Maggard
 
Melanie Maggard is a flash and poetic prose writer who loves dribbles and drabbles. She has published in Cotton Xenomorph, The Dribble Drabble Review, X-R-A-Y Magazine, Five Minute Lit, and others. She can be found online at www.melaniemaggard.com and @WriterMMaggard.