“Well, would you look at that.” He grazed the tip of her left ear with his pinky. “We match.” He turned his head and touched his chin to his right shoulder, allowing her to study his own ear. There, at the very top of the shell, was a tiny brown spot, standing starkly against the otherwise pale pink of his skin.
“I have one, too?” Constance gasped, reaching up to touch her own ear, fingers searching along the smooth surface for a sign of the matching mark.
Simon chuckled lightly. “Yes, right here.” He took her cool hand in his and singled out her index finger, bringing it to rest on the light brown mole. His hand fit like a cozy glove around hers, blazing with warmth despite the whispers of a chill in the breeze that rustled through the apple trees, ruffling their hair. Constance reached up to pat back into place the stray brown strands attempting to fly away from the top of Simon’s head. He huffed a small laugh again and grasped her other hand, holding both tightly in the small patch of grass between them.
“That dress looks lovely on you,” he breathed, leaning down and letting go of her hands to draw her into an embrace, the mole on his ear brushing against its partner. “Kinda makes you look like one of these apples,” he added slyly, laughing and holding her tighter when she smacked his shoulder. When he finally let her go, she threw him a half-hearted glare, her mouth twitching to hold back a smile.
“How did you even know you have that mole?” she asked, tilting her head to look at the side of his head again. He turned to give her a better look.
“Mother liked to point it out when I was young. Said each little mark on my skin was a kiss from an angel. Clearly, they liked me a lot,” he laughed, gesturing to the constellation of marks across the expanse of his face before reaching up to touch the one on his ear again. “This one was always her favorite, though. She said it was extra special because only someone who really loved me would care to look past the obvious ones and know about this one. It’s been there a long time, but I think it’s begun to fade a little over the years.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Guess the angels’ love doesn’t last forever.”
Constance smiled and mirrored him, tapping her ear. “Then I’ll just have to let you borrow some of mine.”
—
Simon pressed his flat cap to his mouth as he let out another wheezing cough, beating his sternum with a shaky fist and raking a clawed hand through his matted gray hair. The salty sea breeze carried the distinct stench of rotting fish, prompting a wave of nausea to sweep through his stomach, and he paused to choke back a gag and recollect himself, desperately inhaling the sweaty smell of his cap.
There was a growing knot of tension where his left shoulder joined his neck, and his ingrown toenail had escalated to the point that he had begun to walk with a slight limp to abate the reddish twinge of pain. His feet pulsed angrily within the confines of his claustrophobic old loafers, and his eyes had begun to burn from exhaustion; but the walk home was bound to take at least another half hour, and that was without taking his limp into consideration. As he continued to trudge miserably along, he came into view of the town church and spotted a rickety wooden bench by the side entrance. Maybe a quick break from the walking would do him some good.
He shuffled over and, taking a deep breath, pinched his brown wool trousers above the knee and pulled the muddy hems of his pant legs up as he collapsed with a huff onto the little bench. It was at the top of a hill, not far outside the courtyard of the church, looking over the coastline and the shipyard in the distance. The chilly night air was pierced by screeching seagulls, the clamor of men working and sailors calling, and a steady current of smog in the air from the factories hovering to the left of the coast.
Slouched on the other end of the bench was the decrepit old janitor who could often be glimpsed in the fourth pew of the church whenever Simon dropped by to unload a few grievances and choice words to God. He tossed a wary glance at Simon as he sat down, but said nothing and continued to twiddle his swarthy thumbs, eyes roving around the small graveyard on the other side of the church.
The two strangers sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Simon pleading the ache in his foot to go away, the janitor fidgeting with the hem of his jacket and shifting his weight every now and then, still throwing sideways looks at his guest. After a moment’s contemplation, he shoved a groping hand inside his jacket and produced a stained pack of cigarettes, the creased lid dangling from the rest of the box by hardly half an inch, its corners worn through like moth wings. A biting gust of wind drove past, and the janitor drew in a sharp breath between his teeth as he eased a cigarette out and continued to search his pockets. He peered over at Simon again, his wiry mustache fluttering as he licked his lips.
“Aye there, son, you got a light? I can’t seem to find me matches.”
Simon stifled the urge to raise his brow at “son” and reached for the spare box he kept in his breast pocket with one hand while sweeping his overgrown hair away from his eyes with the other.
“This is all I’ve got,” he said, showing the man the two matches left.
“Ah, there’s a good chap,” the man rasped as he eagerly reached for them with his knotted, stubby fingers.
Simon watched as he fumbled with the box, his gnarled hands unable to fold around the slim wood of the match. Without a word, he reached over and took the box back, striking one of the matches and lighting the cigarette that the janitor had quickly pushed between his lips. He took a deep drag and exhaled with a sigh, the puff of smoke mixing with the cloud of his breath. For a brief moment he looked like a ghost, his translucent skin turned a cadaveric gray by the veil of foggy white obscuring his face. Simon wondered how many more cigarettes he would smoke in his lifetime, if he would even outlive the crumpled carton in his pocket.
The janitor was quiet again, save for his wheezing breath and an occasional puff of smoke. Then he turned to face his companion with a small grunt, his whole torso shifting as he focused the wrinkled brow where his eyes must have been on Simon.
“Say, I’ve seen you at the church before, ‘aven’t I? Who are you, son? Never seen the likes o’ you around here ‘til a few weeks ago. Where’dja come from?”
Simon offered the man a tight-lipped grimace and rubbed the knot in his shoulder.
“I’m just passing through. I’m Simon,” he said, reaching his hand out to the janitor, but the janitor didn’t take it. Instead, he continued to peer at Simon thoughtfully, his thin mouth struggling to keep its precarious hold on the cigarette.
“I’ve never seen ya on a Sunday, before, I ‘aven’t. But I do see ya comin’ by plenty often. Got a bone to pick with the Ol’ Man, eh?”
Simon dropped his hand back to his lap with a sigh. “I’m not all that religious anymore. I’d just like some clarity, some answers for why I’ve ended up a lonely old man. I don’t think I ever really did anything wrong in my life. Nothing all that bad.”
At this, the janitor gave a short bark of a laugh, and the cigarette fell by his feet. He mumbled a small whoops as he scuffled a worn shoe over it and then leaned back a little further onto the bench, tangling his fingers into his scraggly white beard and heaving a great, smoky sigh.
“Ya think yer a lonely old man, son? Think ya don’ deserve what you’ve been given? By the looks o’ you, yer what, fifty, give ‘r take?” He didn’t pause to let Simon answer, but continued on, his gaze now on the church in the distance. “I’ve been on me own close to fifty years now. Had a wife, once, I did, and a beautiful lil’ girl. Constance, we called her.”
It was as if someone had knocked his unsteady feet from under him, had given his chest a great shove and pushed him into the shockingly cold sea, not an ounce of air left in his lungs as the steely waves crushed him. The janitor continued to drawl on, but Simon was overcome by the sound of the water rushing in his ears, nothing of the man’s words registering but a faraway whisper of Constance, Constance.
“Son? Ya alright there?”
A seagull screeched overhead, and Simon snapped his eyes back to the janitor. He nodded once, and the man continued on, blabbering away about how his wife had left him for another man, whisking away their daughter to live in a bigger house with a bigger front yard, a bigger bedroom with a bigger closet with lots of pretty dresses, and he never saw them again.
“I was an honest man, I was. Worked ‘ard, earned my livin’ and took my family t’ church ev’ry Sunday, never skipped a day either. But i’ seems I still did somethin’ wrong. Seems I didn’ earn me blessings I was due. But what else is there fer me now, eh, what else than t’ keep comin’ back ‘ere, waggin’ me tail and doin’ all me tricks, waitin’ fer the master to fin’lly notice me?”
The janitor gave Simon a long look, something like pity now glinting underneath his eyebrows.
“Ya’ve got time, son. Me? I’m on me last legs. But you can still make peace, eh? Whoever that’s with.”
He was silent for a while, meditating as if he had just delivered a sermon. Then he reached for the cane propped beside him, mumbled something under his breath, and pushed himself to his feet with a heavy exhale. He was about to turn and leave but suddenly cast one more look at Simon. With a few painstaking waddles to the other end of the bench, he clapped a mottled hand onto Simon’s shoulder, gave him a firm nod, and hobbled away.
—
Almost an hour passed before Simon finally crossed the threshold of his front door. He locked it behind him and leaned against the wood for a moment, struggling to catch his breath. He glanced at the smudged mirror to his left and took in the worn appearance of the ragged old man peering back. What would Constance think of me now? Leaning a little closer, he pulled the cap from his head and tucked his hair behind his left ear, pushing the top of the shell down. If he squinted, he could just make out the mole there, so light he may have mistaken it for a speck of dirt. It had been ages, but he could still feel the ghost of her fingers caressing his skin, could still feel the warmth of her breath as she promised to keep the mark alive. Now it was almost gone, abandoned by the angels, lost amidst a flurry of age spots, no one left to revive it with a kiss. With a great sob, Simon pressed the cap to his wrinkled face and fell to his knees, shoulders bobbing upon each wave of grief as he was swept away.
Valerie Tauro is a writer and musician with a passion for interdisciplinary storytelling. She loves listening to film scores, playing classical piano, and over-analyzing all the stories she consumes. When she’s not stewing in a project, she’s starting yet another crochet or knit work, making a new playlist, or gazing out the window.
Featured image by Bernhard on Unsplash.
