Dusty

 

Punctuation in Dust

    The rays of sun streaming in the window highlighted the dust like fine punctuation laying across a paragraph. This was a story that needed to be told, but not with desk lamps and background music, but with the stillness of solitude found only in the untended rooms of covered furniture.

    Dusty didn’t answer the phone. She just sat there looking at it as it rang. She wasn’t quite ready to start her life. Finally done with school and now out on her own for the first time, she just wanted to sit there for a few minutes and enjoy it. The walls in her apartment were still bare, but as she closed her eyes, she could see her photographs hanging on them. Each one telling a story. Her story.

    The one she would hang in the hall was the one story she’d never tell. It was also the one memory she could never forget. That gray Saturday at the lake, quietly drifting back to shore, alone. The gasping, gurgling sounds that she could still hear kept shocking her awake at night, but she had to hang the picture. She needed to know it was not a dream. It was all very real. He was never coming back.

Box of Nails

    Dusty opened a box labeled “Bathroom” and found anything but. A hammer, a cracked mug, a faded university map, and a bag of nails—loose, half-rusted. Beneath them lay a small photo, its corners curled. She sat down slowly, cross-legged on the hardwood floor.

    It was the dock. Early spring. Her hair was wind-mussed and he was leaning back on his elbows with his eyes half closed, sun-drunk. She touched his face in the photo.

    That day they met was unremarkable. They were both waiting for a campus tour to start. He made a joke about a statue’s missing nose, and she smirked before she could stop herself. Later, they were walking side by side, both pretending not to care about the other’s answers.

    He loved the lake. Said the water was like silence made visible.

The Library Stairwell

    Third floor. Right wing. Between the art books and a vending machine that rarely worked. Dusty used to read poetry there, perched on the wide stairs, knees drawn up.

    He would always sit three steps below, sketching. He never showed her what he drew.

    Once, he leaned back and said, “Someday I want to disappear for a whole weekend and just row. That lake? It clears the noise.”

    She had nodded, storing the image. Not knowing then how literal it would become.

Mail Slot

    The envelope had no return address, but the handwriting stopped her breath. She knew it before she touched it. His mother.

    It sat on the table for days. Once, she picked it up, turned it over, pressed it to her chest. Never opened it.

    Some grief is held best in silence.

The Picture Frame That Fell

    A picture dropped off the wall during a late afternoon thunderstorm. Maybe from a vibration. Maybe from nothing at all.

    It was one of the two of them, laughing at something just outside the frame. She didn’t put it back up. Instead, she placed it face-down in a drawer.

    She remembered their only real fight. It had been over nothing. Dishes, maybe. Or how much space one person takes up in bed. It ended with the word “selfish” and the silence afterward.

    She hadn’t said goodbye properly.

Quiet Water

    It was not a dramatic day. That’s what haunted her. The lake was calm. The clouds soft. They had packed sandwiches. She had forgotten the mustard.

    They had drifted for hours, the oars resting beside them. He had stood to reach for something. A hat, maybe.

    She remembered the splash. The way silence swallowed it. How long it took for her to realize he wasn’t coming up.

    She remembered screaming.

Coffee with Strangers

    The coffee shop down the block had terrible espresso but warm seats by the window. She found herself there most Tuesdays. Pretending to read.

    One day, someone sat beside her. A man with too much cologne and a scar across his knuckle. He asked if the window seat was taken.

    They didn’t talk much. Just sat, side by side, in their own silences. When he left, he said, “Thanks for the quiet.”

    And she smiled.

The Wrong Song

    It played in a store aisle. A late 90s song about road trips and rain. She froze, hand hovering over a box of cereal.

    They had played that song three times during one summer drive. Sang the chorus out of tune. He tapped the beat on the steering wheel.

    She left the cart and walked home.

Hallway Gallery

    She hung the photos late at night. One by one. The staircase, the café, the dock, the stairwell. A patchwork of moments.

    One frame remained empty. Centered, spotlighted by a shaft of light from the hallway window.

    She looked at it every day, waiting.

His Sweater

    She found it inside a shoebox. Soft gray, frayed sleeve. Smelled of cedar and something like mint.

    She put it on. It hung heavy on her shoulders, but warm. That night, she didn’t wake gasping.

    For once, no lake. No water. Just sleep.

The Photo in the Hall

    One afternoon, with no ceremony, she slid the photo into the empty frame.

    The lake. Empty boat. Still water. Just sky and shore and silence.

    She didn’t need to explain it. Hanging it was enough.

Ringback

    The phone rang again.

    She picked it up this time.

    The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, apologetic. Wrong number. But she answered anyway. Told them about the weather. Asked them how their day had been.

    When the call ended, she sat for a moment, hand still on the receiver.

    Outside, the sun filtered through the dust, drawing fine punctuation in the air again.

    Another sentence, waiting to be written.