I See You -- flash fiction

Hoss, the Jack Russell, always met him at the door, and he always said the same thing. "I see you."

When she wrecked the car, she cried. She hadn't totaled the car. She was not hurt. She'd been thinking about where she was going instead of what she was doing. The officer ticketed the other driver, but if she'd been paying attention, she could have avoided the whole thing, been on time for her meeting, saved the other driver a ticket, saved herself the deductible. Tears were unnecessary. She was just so angry.

"I see you," he said as he tried to put his arm around her.

"Oh, leave me alone," she said and shrugged him off.

But he hadn't left her alone, and he didn't. Until he did.

A brain aneurysm. Asymptomatic. Can cause stroke ending in brain damage or death. "No shit Sherlock." She should be glad he died. He'd have hated brain damage. She'd have hated brain damage. She hated him being dead.

But she was learning. She had learned to go to bed alone. To get up alone. She didn't go out to eat alone or to the movies alone. Not yet.

There were good kinds of alone. Like when you're in a forest beyond the sound of humans. In the spring when everything is damp and just coming green again. Bird song, drops of rain landing on your hat, the quarreling of a squirrel when he realizes you've seen him.

Or in a warm, candle-lit bath. The house quiet, because he's already asleep. And you can almost hear him and the dog breathing.

One reason she'd married him was so she wouldn't have to deal with life alone. And because he was so practical. She'd been called a dreamer, a bleeding heart, a trouble maker. But he never faulted her for being angry or upset. He really could see her. He saw she tried to right the wrongs she railed against. That she tried to find the good in people, especially the people who were hard for her to like. That she wanted her way because she really did think it was the best way for everybody concerned. He saw that sometimes she failed. At big things. At little things. At being perfect.

Like right then. She did not know how to grieve. Not how to do it right. She read books, went to grief counselling.

 At least she could sleep.

She saw him. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe all those bad times were the dream. This seemed real. His hair was freshly cut and he smelled of bath soap and deodorant. He was coming through the trees toward her.

"I see you," he said.

"I see you," she said and reached for him.

Something landed in the middle of her, jolting her awake. Two bright black eyes in a little white face, looking down at her.

"Rotten dog." Her eyes filled with angry tears. But the little dog looked so happy to see her awake.

"I see you," she said letting go of the tears and the anger. "Wanna go to the movies? Or will breakfast do?"