Namid

Namid

He is beautiful, the man who comes back for his jacket. I suppose, in a lot of ways, he looks like many of the men I see in town. Tall and strapping are the terms I've most often heard used to describe them. His hair is a warm brown with hints of blond that must lighten in the summer sun, cut tight and short. It looks like it hasn't been trimmed in a while, though, and tussled ends poke out slightly over his ears. He wears a beard, as many here do. I don't know if facial hair genuinely helps keep a person warm - I've never grown a beard to find out - but I've heard that it might. I think that's probably just something people say, and everyone wears them simply because it's a popular thing to do in the cold wilderness.

The beautiful man's is short, more stubble than beard, and it's the slightest bit redder than the rest of his hair. His skin is darker than mine, though that's not hard to manage, and he's taller than me, over six feet, I imagine. His shoulders are broad, and his hands are strong and roughened from work. There are small black stains that likely never wash off ingrained in firm calluses on his palms. He's wearing black pants that hug muscled legs and settle low across his hips. His shirt, a button-down flannel in shades of green and black, has the top two buttons popped open, his thin black tie tugged loose. His biceps seem intent on testing the strength of the fabric that encompasses them. His stomach isn't large, but it's not flat either, and for some reason, I find myself wondering if the hair that must grow under his shirt is the pale chocolate of his hair or the slightly more auburn of his beard. He looks like warmth and strength and life, even though his heart tells me that he's falling apart.

For a brief moment, I'm absolutely terrified. I've never been terrified before, not even when I woke up with no memories and nothing and no one. Scared, yes, but not terrified.

I've never been convinced I've seen a ghost before.

The beautiful man standing at the door when I pull it open is the man I sealed into a cherrywood box early this morning before his family came to say their goodbyes. I don't believe in ghosts or zombies or the ability of a broken body to magically show up hours after it's been placed in the ground, healed of its injuries, and looking at me as if I might be able to offer it the meaning of life, but for one breath, one heartbeat, I can think of no other explanation.

"I was here this morning," he says in a voice that sounds like shards of broken glass are lodged in his throat.

"For my brother."

His brother. His twin. Clearly, they were twins. No wonder his soul feels so broken. I've never met twins before, but I've read about them. About the way they often feel more connected than other siblings. I've always wondered what it would feel like to be that close to another being. I've wondered if twins feel their sibling's emotions in the way I feel the emotions of others. I've wondered if their bond is the closest anyone might come to feeling things the way I do.

I know it's not likely. I'm not like other people. I know I'm alone.

I wonder if that's how the beautiful man feels now, as utterly and completely alone in this world as I am. His grief is so crushing that it's overwhelming anything else he's feeling.

I invite him in when he tells me he's forgotten his coat. His soul feels lost. It feels like he's drowning in darkness.

His coat isn't nearly as lost as his soul feels; he's simply left it sitting on a chair in the burgundy room, and I gather it up to return to him. Its scent wafts upward as I fold it gently over my forearm. Old leather and motor oil and cinnamon and sweat. It smells like laughter and comfort. Like the sharpness of an inhale on a winter's morning and the warmth of a blanket beside the fire. I've known all of these scents before, yet none of them have ever sent a rush of emotion surging through me like this. Maybe his jacket carries his emotions in the way the burgundy room seems to hold grief.

I offer him the kindest smile I can manage as I extend the coat in his direction. His gait is slow, his body and soul exhausted, as he shifts two steps toward me. Our fingers brush as he takes the scuffed leather from my grasp, and the world freezes. I've never been so overwhelmed by one person's emotions before. This is how it feels when I'm trapped in a crowd, everyone feeling something different, their emotions crashing together into a swirling, muddy mess that threatens to drown me. There is no crowd. It's just him. He's so hurt and so lost and so alone. His grief is so intense and burdensome that I wonder how he's able to stand and breathe in the face of it all.

Nearly hidden under all of the despair and heartache, there is love. A bright, swirling, all-encompassing love for the other half of his soul. It's love that now has nowhere to go. I'm overwhelmed by its radiance, still so visible and bright and teal and magenta and golden, even though it's buried in the black void that envelops him. It's the tiniest glimpse of the way I've always imagined love could feel, and I want more of it. I want him to know more of it, to remember what it feels like, and I hope with every fiber of my being that he's able to claw out of his darkness and find it again one day. Anyone who is able to feel love like that should get to experience it every day of their lives.

I know there isn't much I can do for him. I don't know him, and he doesn't know me, and while I've found that there are tools that can be useful when it comes to navigating anxiety and depression and fear, in the end, I can't take those emotions from him. He'll have to find his own way out.

"You'll be okay again one day."

The words slide through my lips before I even realize I've formed them. I hope he hears them. I hope that even the smallest part of his soul can believe me. I want him to hope.

He nods a mumbled thank you as I lead him back to the door.

He doesn't look back as he trudges to his truck, but I watch him. I watch as he slides behind the wheel and pulls away from the parking lot. I watch the space his truck used to occupy as the remnants of his emotions flow through me with an intensity I've rarely known, pulling mine to the surface to meld and dance with those he's given me. They move together through my heart and soul and across my skin in a way that they haven't before. I watch the way they shift inside me for long enough that the room becomes cold, and it's only when Ken startles me from my revelry that I close the door and return to work.