Crepuscular

On Saturday nights, the man methodically collects his things: three pieces of crudely sliced Cabot, three plump green olives, three medium slices of cured meat, and a half of an apple thinly sliced. He arranges everything on his plate just so. He lays the cheese, meat and apple slices in neat fans on the outside rim of a white plate with the olives delicately in the middle. He pours a small glass of red wine in a jelly jar and throws a white cloth napkin over his forearm and makes his way upstairs.

He puts a record on the record player and lets the needle dig into the flesh of an old jazz plate—“Crepuscular with Nellie.” He sits quietly for several moments and listens to Monk’s heavy fingers pound the keys into sculpted form while he stares at his plate of food. He takes a sip of wine.

It seems to him that loneliness has a certain geometric precision. Plate. Wine. Cheese. Meat.  Olives. He looks out the window at the now dark sky and practices mouthing the word “crepuscule.”

When he was a young man he used to watch his French teacher mouth every strained syllable. Once during class, he volunteered to dance with one of the girls. He stood awkwardly and stretched his hands out in front of him. He closed his eyes and felt the light wisp of her hair touch his face. He smelled nectar lip-gloss. He looked out the window while the needle bobbed defiantly against the turntable. There was no honeyed sun. Just long gray shadows.  And the sound of rain.  Black sky.  He had missed twilight.