Yvette’s Tale

“Have you been out to the desert?”

I snapped to consciousness. I’d forgotten how long I had been jogging when I came to a four-way stop, unsure where to go. The man sitting on the bus stop bench was the one asking the question.

“I—I’m sorry?” I stammered, breathless and confused.

“Have you been out to the desert?” he inquired again.

There was something about him. Familiar yet unrecognizable. His clothes looked borrowed from someone who’d died decades ago — a soft plaid shirt with its elbows thinned to threads, trousers that hung loose on his frame, and shoes so polished they almost reflected the weak afternoon light.

But it wasn’t the clothes that caught me. It was the eyes.

They were the color of not-so-milky cataracts — pale, clouded, yet sharp in a way that made me want to look away.

I shook my head. “No. Why would I—”

“My father always said he felt closest to God out in the desert. You might find Him there. Chances are, you’ll find what you need instead… if you’re willing to pay.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he’d just told me where to find the nearest post office.

“Pay..? I don’t have any extra money. Thanks anyway.”

Then he tilted his head like a bird spying far-off carrion and smiled faintly. “You’ll pay something you didn’t know you still had. Drive west. Find the toll booth. You can’t miss it.”

Something in me bristled. I pulled my earbuds from my pocket, meaning to shut this conversation down with music and motion, but when I glanced back, the bench was empty.

No footsteps. No swish of fabric. No sign anyone had been there at all.

For the next two weeks, I couldn’t get the man’s words out of my head. They followed me into sleep, into grocery lines, into the blank spaces of the day when grief crept in.

I slept uneasy. Usually my nights ended in tears, but these days I only tossed and turned.  Sometimes to calm myself I would set out his clothes for the morning like I had before, I would even catch myself buying ingredients for his favorite dinner without realizing it; spaghetti putanesca.  I hated the briny taste of it but it made David happy. I’d wake to find myself staring at my nightstand, where my favorite picture of David and I sat in its frame. It was from the year we got engaged, taken by a stranger who’d seen us laughing together. The future had been bright and opalescent.  Back then everything shone and nothing hurt.

I’d give anything to go back to that time.

I picked up the frame, my fingertips brushing against his image. The cold glass was a chilly reminder of our separation in this life. The stranger’s words haunted me. What could I find in the desert? God? Something else?

David?

I put the frame down and turned over in bed. Eyes shut, I told myself I’d sleep and put that odd encounter out of my head.

I failed.

Instead of the kitchen for a glass of water, my feet carried me to the closet. I got dressed. Slipped on my shoes and locked the door behind me.  The cold metal of the key slid into the ignition.  I backed out and made a beeline west.

The highway at night is a kind of ocean — black stretches swallowing everything but the thin beam of my headlights.

At first, I thought I’d stop at the edge of town, turn around, tell myself this was just a late-night impulse. But each green exit sign slid past like a mile marker in a dream — distant, unreal, impossible to take.

By the time the gas stations thinned and the air grew colder, I’d stopped thinking about turning back. I didn’t even remember choosing this road.

The desert crept in slowly. Streetlights gave way to telephone poles, then to nothing at all. The moon floated above the horizon like a coin someone had dropped and forgotten.

I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been driving.  This is stupid!  I thought to myself.  Why am I out here?  I pulled over and got out, slamming the door shut.  I yelled out into the inky desert blackness.  I grew furious with myself.  Nothing will bring David back!  I berated myself until the sun started to peak out from the mountains that surrounded me.

And then I saw it.

Not glowing. Not calling attention to itself. Just there — a squat concrete booth at the shoulder of the road, its single window catching my headlights like an eye that had been watching all along.  A rusted looking truck parked haphazardly along side it.  I was close.  I got back in my car, put it in DRIVE and crept up to it.

I slowed, heart pounding, catching my breath.

The man inside was not the man from the bench. This one was younger, maybe mid-forties, but with a stillness that made him feel much older. He didn’t wave me in or smile. Just waited.  He almost looked bored.

I rolled down my window. My voice was smaller than I wanted.
“I think… I’m here for—”

“Arm,” he said, flatly.

It didn’t feel like a request.

The metal device was cool against my skin. A soft hiss. One drop of blood.

The first screen lit up:

“May 17th, 2016. Riverside Park. 6:42 p.m.”

My breath caught. That was the day. The golden hour, the river catching sunlight in shards of gold. The day he proposed.

Then the second screen appeared:

“Payment Due: Every memory of his voice.”

“Um…I have cash…” I said unsure what exactly that payment implied.

He sighed and tapped the screen again in response.  

“Please, I don’t know how to even give you that as payment.  Why not something else?” I implored.

He tilted his head and looked at me like I was bothering his day.  “Payment will be collected at the moment of crossing.”

I thought about it. His laugh. His good-morning rasp. The way he’d say “Hey” like it was the only word that mattered. All of it, gone.  Then inspiration struck.

But I could make new memories. I’d hear him again. This was fine. This was worth it.  We would be together!  A chance to make things right, to DO things right this time.

“Yes,” I said.

The arm lifted. The road shimmered.  I put the car in drive and drove though slowly.

The sound of his voice began dissolving before I’d even reached the horizon.  I tried desperately to cling to them but I could no more hold on to them as I could catch smoke with a strainer. Each note faded until it was like trying to remember a language I’d never learned.

The desert fell away, and the river was there — exactly as it had been. Warm breeze, soft light, the smell of lilacs from the path.  I was even wearing the same clothes I had on that day.  

David walked toward me, just as young as that day, smiling that shy smile that always made my knees weak. He took my hands. My heart leapt.

Then he said something — I could see the shape of my name on his lips — but there was nothing. No sound.  At first it was garbled but then like some unfelt wind it came and snatched the sounds away.

I smiled and leaned closer, thinking I’d misheard. “What?”

He tried again. Still nothing.

The warmth in his expression flickered into confusion. His eyes darted briefly to the river, then back to me. He glanced down, cleared his throat — or maybe he didn’t, I couldn’t tell — and started over, pulling the small velvet box from his jacket.

When he dropped to one knee, my eyes stung.

He spoke. I saw the words Will you marry me? form perfectly. His mouth shaped them with such certainty, such tenderness, that for a moment I almost believed I could hear them. But there was nothing. Not even the faintest murmur.

The silence roared.

I looked at him desperately, shaking my head, hoping beyond hope he would understand — that he would see in my eyes that I wasn’t rejecting him, I simply couldn’t hear.

He tried again. Still nothing.

The warmth in his eyes flickered, like a candle pushed by an unseen draft. He doesn’t understand. Not yet.

His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket. The faint tremor in his fingers was new—I’d never seen him nervous like this. Oh no. Not here. Not like this.

The small velvet box appeared between us. He didn’t look at it. His gaze stayed fixed on me, steady and almost desperate, as if breaking eye contact might collapse whatever fragile bridge he was building.

He sank to one knee. I noticed the shine of his shoes, the perfect crease of his trousers, the way the light caught on the edge of the box. Please stop. Please don’t make me watch this happen.

He spoke. His lips formed the words cleanly: Will you marry me?

The meaning hit before the silence did—but the silence was worse. It came like a curtain dropping between us, thick and total. I strained for a sound, any sound, but the only thing in my ears was the rushing beat of my own heart. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you. I CAN’T HEAR YOU.

I shook my head, not to refuse but to plead, to make him see. My mouth formed the words, I can’t— but they must have dissolved before reaching him.

Movement rippled at the edges of my vision. A crowd had begun to form—hesitant, hovering, pretending to busy themselves with nothing in particular.

A mother, eyes darting between us, took her children by the hands and steered them away, murmuring something I couldn’t hear. They went quickly, as if distance might protect them from the silence hanging between us. The air grew heavy with that peculiar blend of curiosity and pity. They see me. They see us. They see this breaking.

His smile faltered, and for a moment he just stayed there, holding out the open box like an offering he couldn’t bear to withdraw. Then, slowly, deliberately, he closed it. The click of the clasp was imagined, but I felt it anyway—like the lid sealing on a coffin.  Cold, final.  

When he stood, the softness in his eyes had thinned into something raw—hurt, embarrassed, exposed. I wanted to reach for him, but my hands stayed still. If I touch him now, I’ll have to feel the moment he pulls away.

It didn’t matter.  He was gone.  I saw him walk towards the receding sun. I watched him until it stung my eyes.  I watched him until he slipped from my sight, and from my memory.  I crumpled to the ground and wept.  I wept for I could no longer remember all the past I love yous.  I wept for another future stolen.  I wept for my lonely self.

The sun was already sliding toward the horizon, the edges of the sky bleeding gold. West, I thought, and without deciding, my feet turned that way.

I stopped. Drew in a slow breath, the cool evening air filling my lungs. My spine straightened. I coud hear the soft lapping of river water on rock.

Then I turned — away from the sun — and began walking.