Past Tense

Chapter 2

araneae
spider

THE SKY ABOVE forms a lilac canvas dipped in different shades of blue, giving way for the stars to line the evening sky. My dog, Bean, walks in a zig-zagged pattern along the sidewalk and scattered raindrops, stopping between overgrown weeds and cracks in the pavement. I follow closely behind, staring at the rising moon and setting sun, sinking into the glittering lines and cerulean hues. It's enough to make me reach out, breathe in the colors lingering on my skin.

The neighborhood looks just as it had the first day I moved into Aimee's apartment. I'm reminded of the ocean breeze and hazy sunshine, the two hour drive away from home. The streets remain wide, unfolding into quilted rugs and watercolor paintings and all the promises I forgot to keep. I can hear my mother's voice clear in my head. Are you being good?

Bean tugs the leash in my hand, hard, and I recover from my daze, walking forward toward the stairs of my older sister's apartment. When it rains, the apartment feels like a distant memory. It reminds me of my old bedroom, with the dusty bookshelves and cobwebbed windowsills and faded photographs hanging on the walls. I drown in the raindrops falling against the rooftop, listen to the same sound before falling asleep.

The door is left unlocked, slightly ajar, and I already know Aimee is home from the shoes and socks scattered across the hallway. Her voice carries from the living room, soft against the background noise of the television. "Kira, is that you?"

"Hey," I say, walking towards the living room, stepping between shoes and unpacked boxes lining the apartment floor. Aimee sits cross-legged on the couch, one hand skimming through a heavy textbook, and the other writing between the margins of her notebook. I sit beside her and say again, "Hey."

She glances my way, briefly, before diverting her attention back to the papers in her lap. The edges are crumpled and stained. Her days are spent much differently than mine, reading through court cases and attending law classes. I tend to idle the streets in broad daylight. She looks at me again, eyes wide between wire rimmed glasses, her lips drawn into a frown. "I thought you were going out? I could've walked Bean."

I shrug. Maybe it was a younger sibling thing—listening to your older sister and wearing your heart on your sleeve. Apologizing without forgiveness. Getting hurt in the end. I'm not sure what to say, trying to keep my voice even. It usually breaks in all the wrong places. "He's different now."

"What?"

It's a fleeting feeling, nostalgia and reminiscence and regret. I'm already tired from living through the whole day.

"Never mind," I say, standing up to gather my things. Bean follows my footsteps as I turn toward the bedroom. "Just make sure to turn off the kitchen light before you head to bed."

She looks at me for a moment. It's the same eyes that saw the world through our untold stories, the same ears that listened to every late night conversation in the dark. It was easy to see things as a before and after, all the before sunrises and after midnights, the beginnings coming to an end.

But we're older now. And after all these years, it's much easier to forget.