The Leaf

Arrival

Raymond

A safe passage to March 16, 2019 meant Raymond Reyes had escaped a death sentence.

He was spat out exactly where he knew he would be: at the end of Tower Park's utility area, by the shared fence with the auto tools yard.

Adrenaline kicked the pain out of him as he started running at full speed, crossing the wet pathway to the better-illuminated part of the park, further North. He knew New Haven's map by heart, the timeline like a well-recited poem. All the information about living his new life was safely saved on his internal drive, up until he'd die of a heart attack, age 76.

Even at night, his intrusion into the more populated patches of the park brought with it a sense of calm. Despite the occasional friendly barking and the static sound of a runner's headphones, people were not in a hurry anywhere. Fewer than in the pictures depicting the park during the day, probably because the recon photos and videos had been taken during celebrations or parades, they smoked silently while waiting for their dogs to shit.

So many healthy bodies, none of the heads attached to them aware how little time humanity as they knew it had left. Raymond took a deep breath of the new clean air. His lungs were strong again, allowing him the freedom his body should've had.

The black tracksuit and comfortable shoes made him look like a runner, too, both items having been picked out months before. Or decades later, depending on where the reference point was. In the Motel Sedona's parking lot, next to a black Toyota, Raymond waited for Tony Wesley to finish entertaining his girlfriend for the night. The clock said 21:34 in red LED lights, only a half an hour left until Raymond could take over the cheating man's life.

Claire

Claire had a wine glass she took everywhere around the house. It was empty, but she couldn't shake the habit off.

Seven days sober. And no one to tell.

She and Tony had moved from the city almost a year back for a job he had to take. A good choice, as evidenced by their two-story house, maid service, and part-time gardener. She had little career ambitions, her love for the indoors being a running joke in their marriage, so she'd followed her husband without protest. She was lucky he was willing to support them both, her fear of talking to other people rendered her useless on that front. She had it good, she knew.

Still, her days started to look the same, breakfast often being orange juice spiked with vodka. Only five years into her dream marriage and Claire had already slept with the gardener, the only other man except for Tony who had talked to her in the last year.

Seated on the white sofa Tony insisted on buying so that her failings in keeping it clean were more visible, she heard the familiar engine noise, interrupting her usual daily assessment of the choices that'd brought her there.

Careful to match the furniture, Claire was wearing white: a tight tube dress that he had picked online, with silver shoes. Their pointy tips could be used as weapons, it was why she wore them so often.

Because she hated decorating -- and Tony liked simple straight lines -- white metals replaced wood, making their home look aseptic. She had nothing to look at to make herself feel better. The wedding portrait depicting a too-happy couple in matching smiles was the only photo on the stark walls. It filled with light from an approaching car, filtered through curtains over a handsome Tony in a tux that brought out his dark eyes. Claire couldn't recognize her own smile, the one matching the lace around her shoulders, her best to date. They were a beautiful couple, the photo said. A familiar engine noise becoming clearer confirmed that her husband was home.

The front door opened too soon after the car stopped, Tony did not park the SUV in the garage. It was unlike him, he always feared the neighborhood kids would scratch his precious new paint, shiny black.

Claire heard him fumble to put his keys back in his pocket and fear started to grow inside her: he was probably drunk. He would teach her a lesson.

He entered their living room as if unsure where everything was. A quick look around the room, a raised eyebrow when he saw her, one with the couch. She turned on the lamp closest to her. He reacted as if she blinded him, exaggerating the light's effect.

"Dinner is cold," she greeted him.

When vulnerable, like for example when drunk and weak, Tony effortlessly reminded her what she saw in him, back when she was a college freshman and he was a promising lawyer. He had a large build, developed playing rugby, and maintained by going to the gym regularly. He stood six foot six tall in the entrance hallway, in a black suit with a thin tie, one of his simple work ones he wore to blend in at Spencer & Gill. He had shaved less than an hour before, he smelled like gas station aftershave, she could tell, hurt. Another affair.

Her husband looked around the room as if searching for objects to throw at her, but brought his dark eyes back to her, widened, surprised to see her. When not actively trying to torment her, Tony was a good-looking man: his dark smooth skin covered symmetrical features. Handsome, people would describe him, because of his square jaw making him look more manly than he was. When serious, all his features aligned in a mask: pretty to look at, but nothing compared to when he smiled.

Over the years, Claire had learned to detach from him and evaluate him as a specimen, in clinical terms. It hurt less when he did something hurtful. She buried the way she used to feel when he looked at her, his eyebrows two lines that converged to scold her when angry.

He had also cut his hair, all going now around his head. Thick, even at that minuscule length, it still made his head darker. Probably his new lover liked him looking older, more mature. Claire reluctantly agreed, happy that her deeper feelings for her husband had long died, or else she'd be crying into her pillow again.

All that remained was how she loved his black eyes on her, and how she knew his body had muscles that were hard to touch, on arms she still wanted around her. She would erase that too, with his generous assistance.

"I'm sorry," he said, making her almost spill her empty glass. "...You ate?"

It was, of course, a trick question. She never had dinner without the main guest. His voice hesitated: Tony was in deep shit, to break his vow of silence like that. Tail between his legs, back to Claire, as he always did when things got bad.

"I'll set the table," she ignored him. Whatever it was, he'd tell her whenever he deemed it was time for her to know.