Fragments (1 of 4)
What Remains After Goodbye
A few years ago, I went to Chuck E. Cheese with my good friend Grant. Our families were there—our kids running wild through games and noise. His parents had come too. I knew his father had Alzheimer’s, but I didn’t realize how far it had progressed.
While Grant played with his children, I sat with his parents and saw his father turn to his wife and ask, “Now, who is that man over there?”
“That’s your son,” she said.
That moment stayed with me.
I wrote this story to explore the quiet heartache of that kind of loss—the kind where someone is still right in front of you… and already gone.
One
Alexander didn’t see her come into the café.
She was simply there, as if the room had noticed her before he did. Sitting alone on the loveseat by the fire, in the golden wash of hearthlight, she looked like she belonged to the place. Or was it that the place belonged to her? It seemed that the books, the flames, the crackling wood, had all arranged themselves around her in tribute.
She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
Everything about her was impossibly perfect: the wide, luminous brown eyes, fringed with lashes that seemed almost too delicate for this world. The faint constellation of freckles across her nose, placed so exquisitely he almost laughed, as though some artist had worked with divine brushes. Her hair—long, dark, and arranged in an updo he couldn’t name—revealed the nape of her neck, and in that unblemished arc of skin he found more beauty than he’d seen in sculptures. Ringlets framed her temples like whispers of something he’d almost forgotten.
She was petite, perhaps five foot one, her legs crossed neatly beneath the hem of a soft yellow sundress. Her fingers, slender and graceful, rested in her lap. Her nails, painted a pale pink, somehow struck him as the most elegant thing in the world. The neckline of the dress dipped just enough to stir something warm and involuntary in him. She was modest, but not oblivious to allure. She wasn’t trying to seduce him. She didn’t need to.
He wanted to speak, but for a moment, all he could do was stare. Something fluttered inside his chest. It wasn't lust, exactly, but something he could not name. There was something familiar about her, although he did not recognize her. She was less like a memory and more like a dream.
Her eyes turned toward him, and she smiled, as if she’d been waiting. She held his gaze across the cafe, unashamed of being seen.
When she spoke, her voice was music. “You’re staring,” she said gently.
He blinked. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you come in.” He closed the book he had been reading.
“You never do,” she replied.
He raised an eyebrow, a faint look of confusion on his face. Alexander was certain that if he had ever met a woman this exquisite before, he would remember. She seemed new and perfect—and yet, there was a strange sense of nostalgia when he looked at her.
He wondered, briefly, if this was how love worked. Was it possible that when you met your future lover, you always felt a flicker of recognition? A sense that you’d known her all along, even if you hadn’t?
He stood, carrying his drink with him. At some point, he had replaced his coffee with a martini. The realization struck him only in passing. He hadn’t asked for one. But there it was, perfectly chilled, glass beaded with condensation, an olive suspended like a memory in amber. Perhaps he’d ordered it and forgotten. Or perhaps someone had brought it, knowing what he needed before he did.
This was why it was his favorite cafe. Most cafes did not serve martinis, nor did they have stone fireplaces graced with hemlock mantles. And most smelled of stale coffee rather than leather that emanated from the two floors of ancient books that lined the walls.
He stepped toward her, and she seemed to become aware of his presence without looking up. Alexander smiled inwardly, watching the way she composed herself—an unconscious grace in the way she smoothed the fabric of her sundress, pulled the hem just over her knee, and adjusted the neckline with a subtle, practiced touch, exposing just a little bit more of the natural curve of her well-proportioned breasts. It wasn’t vanity. It was self-possession. She looked like a woman who understood exactly what kind of effect she had—and didn’t mind having it.
She looked up as he approached. No flicker of discomfort, no demure glance away. Only warmth in her expression, and something else beneath it—a softness that bordered on sadness. He couldn’t place it, but it made him slow as he reached her side.
Alexander paused, the martini cool against his palm, and let the moment settle between them. The firelight danced across her face, casting shadows that only deepened the mystery of her presence. He felt an urge to say something clever, something worthy of her, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he gestured to the empty space beside her on the loveseat.
“May I?” he asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him anew, then nodded. “Of course.”
He sat, careful not to crowd her, though the small couch made distance impossible. The scent of her—something floral, faint, and timeless—drifted toward him, and he found himself inhaling a little deeper. The martini glass clinked softly as he set it on the low table before them, the olive shifting in its amber sea.
“You said I never do,” he began, turning to face her. “Never see you come in. Have we met before?”
Her smile widened, but it was tinged with that same unplaceable sadness. “Not in the way you mean,” she said. Her voice carried a lilt, a melody that seemed to linger in the air. “But perhaps in other ways.”
He frowned, intrigued. “That’s cryptic.”
“Is it?” She leaned back slightly, her hands still folded in her lap, her posture effortlessly poised. “I think it’s only fair. You’ve been watching me as if I’m a puzzle to solve.”
He chuckled, caught off guard by her directness. “I suppose I have. You’re… difficult to ignore.”
She didn’t blush or look away. Instead, she held his gaze, her brown eyes steady and searching. “And you’re not used to that, are you? Being the one who’s seen?”
The question landed like a quiet challenge, and he felt a flicker of self-consciousness. He took a sip of the martini. It was crisp, dry, and perfect. He let it steady him. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I don’t mind it.”
Her lips curved again, and this time the sadness seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter, almost playful. “Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think I’ve unsettled you.”
“You haven’t,” he lied. The flutter in his chest suggested otherwise. He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on his knee. “You seem to know this place well.”
She glanced around, her eyes tracing the shelves of leather-bound books, the flickering hearth, the worn wooden beams overhead. “It’s a place that remembers,” she said.
“Remembers?” He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the odd choice of words.
“It remembers everything,” she replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Her gaze returned to him, and for a moment, he felt as though she were looking not just at him, but through him—past the surface, into something deeper. “The stories in the books. The people who’ve sat here. The fire that’s burned for years. It holds onto things.”
He followed her gaze to the flames, their crackle filling the silence. “And you? Does it hold onto you too?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for a small book on the table beside her, a slim volume bound in faded green leather. She ran her fingers over the cover, then handed it to him. “What do you think?”
He took it, glancing for the title, but there was no title, author’s name, or publication date. The pages felt brittle under his touch, the ink slightly smudged, as though it had been read a thousand times. “I haven’t seen this one,” he said, flipping it open. The first line caught his eye: She appeared as if summoned, a figure woven from the threads of forgotten light.
He looked up at her, a chill prickling his skin. “Almost like it’s describing you.”
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice soft. “Or perhaps it’s just the café doing what it does best.”
He closed the book and set it down, his mind buzzing with questions he didn’t know how to ask. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” he said finally.
Her smile returned, warm and knowing. “That's not true at all. And you’re exactly as I thought you’d be.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. He wanted to press her, to unravel the enigma she presented, but something in her expression told him she wouldn’t give him answers—not yet. Instead, he leaned back, mirroring her posture, and let the firelight wash over them both.
“Tell me something,” he said after a moment. “Anything.”
She tilted her head, considering. Then, with a voice as gentle as the flames, she said, “I’ve always liked the way you hold a book. Like it’s something alive.”
He blinked, startled. “You’ve seen me before.”
“Oh, yes. I have seen you here,” she whispered, and the sadness crept back into her eyes.
"I— I feel very strange," Alexander said. "You make me feel… different."
"In what way, darling?"
He stared at her for a moment, loving the word she used.
"I feel very attracted to you in ways I can't explain. I hope that is not too forward."
"Not at all, my love," she said. "I like being an object of your desire. But only for you."
"I can't explain it," he said. "I wish I knew you better. What I wouldn't do for a girl like you!"
"Is that so?" she flirted back.
"What I wouldn't do with a girl like you!"
"Oh, I know exactly what you'd do," she said, purring. She uncrossed her legs, and then recrossed them the other way, giving him a glimpse of the inside of one knee as she did so.
He knew it was on purpose, but he still trembled when she did it.
"Really?" he asked. "What things do you think I’d do?"
She smiled at him, sultry. "Oh, Alex; you know very well that they are things we can't speak out loud. They can't be described properly. They can only be performed and enjoyed. We don't say them. We indulge in them."
"We do?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
Alexander felt his pulse quicken, the air between them thickening with something unspoken yet palpable. The firelight flickered in her eyes, reflecting a warmth that seemed to pull him closer, even as his mind scrambled to keep up. Her words—playful, teasing, yet laced with an intimacy that felt both foreign and inevitable—left him unsteady, as though the ground beneath him had shifted without his noticing.
He swallowed, his martini forgotten on the table, the olive sinking slowly in its amber depths. “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” he said, aiming for a tone of light defiance but hearing the tremor in his own voice. “And of me.”
Her lips curved into that knowing smile again, the one that seemed to hold secrets he wasn’t sure he was ready to uncover. “Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice a soft challenge. She leaned forward just enough that the faint floral scent of her drifted toward him again, wrapping around his senses like a quiet promise.
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, caught off guard by the certainty in her gaze. It wasn’t arrogance, he realized. It was something deeper, something that made him feel as though she’d already seen every part of him, even the parts he kept hidden from himself. The thought should have unnerved him, but instead, it sent a thrill racing down his spine.
“No,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “You’re not wrong.”
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, the playfulness gave way to that same unplaceable sadness he’d glimpsed before. She reached out, her slender fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rested on the loveseat between them. The touch was light, fleeting, but it burned through him like a spark, igniting something he couldn’t name.
“I don’t want to scare you,” she said quietly, her tone shifting to something gentler, almost tender. “I only want… this. To sit here with you. To feel you near me.”
He turned his hand over, catching her fingers before she could pull away. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sent a quiet jolt through him. “You’re not scaring me,” he said, though his heart was pounding hard enough to contradict him. “I just—I don’t understand why this feels so…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Familiar?” she offered, her thumb brushing lightly against his.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like I’ve known you forever, even though I’m sure I’d remember you.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down at their joined hands, her lashes casting delicate shadows across her cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Maybe you have. In a way.”
He frowned, the cryptic edge to her words pulling him back from the haze of her touch. “What does that mean?”
She lifted her gaze to meet his, and for the first time, he saw something raw in her expression—something vulnerable, unguarded. “It means I’ve been here before,” she said. “With you. Not like this, not exactly. But… close enough.”
His grip on her hand tightened slightly, a reflex he couldn’t control. “That’s impossible,” he said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. The nostalgia he’d felt earlier—the strange, aching sense of recognition—pressed against him now, sharper than before.
“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head. “This place remembers. Maybe it’s not just the books or the fire. Maybe it’s us, too.”
He stared at her, his mind racing. The café, with its leather-bound walls and crackling hearth, suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a stage. Something larger was unfolding, something he couldn’t quite grasp. And yet, sitting here with her, her hand in his, he didn’t want to pull away from it.
“Who are you?” he asked finally.
Her smile returned, soft and bittersweet. “Someone who’s waited a long time to see you again,” she said. “And someone who hopes you’ll stay, just a little longer.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. The rational part of him wanted to demand answers, to unravel the mystery she’d woven around them. But the other part—the part that felt her warmth, that trembled at her touch—wanted only to lean closer, to let the moment stretch on forever.
“I’ll stay,” he said at last, his voice steady now. “As long as you’ll have me.”
Her eyes brightened, and she squeezed his hand gently. “Then we have time,” she murmured. “For now, that’s enough.”
The fire crackled beside them, the shadows dancing across the walls, and Alexander let himself sink into the strange, beautiful impossibility of her presence. Whatever she was—memory, dream, or something else entirely—he knew he wasn’t ready to let her go.
Not yet.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.