The Final Days of the Cozmic Café

 And in the house,
she destroys and she cleans; says at times:
"The asylum is nice. Where? Here!"
Other times, she breaks down and cries.
- Cesar Vallejo

She tried to ignore the portent of turkey vultures circling overhead while she watched him place the final object into his truck: the metal Starbuck’s coffee mug with fully engineered screw on top. The truck reflected the August heat. He’d spent an hour of their last full day together washing and buffing it to garish lipstick red splendor. Funny that he kept that truck so clean.

The dog tensed beside her, waiting for the invitation to load up. Many river days had begun with a ride in the truck.

“Not this time, buddy. We’re staying here.”

Dog and woman whimpered and sighed together as the engine whirred to action. Releasing the brake and rolling down the window in a single motion, the man extended a waving hand and eased down the driveway, headed west. Like aging levees of the Delta straining during a spring storm, she barely held back the persistent force of tears swirling behind her eyelids. She pinched the bridge of her nose. When had she learned this trick for staving off tears?  When she opened her eyes, a lingering haze of dust marked the line between a previous life and now.

A strident arrow of Canada Geese skimmed the oaks, a cliché in flight. Neither the dog nor the woman had a clue about direction or about working in a gaggle.  “It’s a simplistic notion,” she thought. “We have to pay the bills, he’s gone to the city, and now I am going to live alone with this damn dog.”

The dim coolness of the house soothed her heat-bedraggled nerves as she stared out the kitchen window. Dishes from their last meal together filled the sink. She squirted a circle of dish soap over the pile and turned on the warm water.  A satisfying mound of suds developed. Two bowls, two glasses, two forks. She dried one set and put it away, leaving the other to dry on the dish rack. Just hers. She shook a layer of Bon Ami into the sink and rubbed it a little. She wiped all the counter surfaces, moving fruit bowl, pasta jar, coffee maker, and bread box to be thorough. She noticed a drool of beer down the side of the cupboard where the bottle opener was attached, wiped it. Acknowledging a pile of floor detritus, she thought,  “I’ll have to sweep. Then vacuum.” There’s order to everything. 

Hours later, windows gleaming, carpet fluffed, remote control collection sequestered in the proper corner, she ventured into the cooling twilight to walk the dog. He dragged at her side but wouldn’t look her in the eyes. She wondered how they would make it, just the two of them. She thought too much and became neurotically tidy when left alone. The dog was shedding. She stopped to brush him.