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Crow's Ghost
He spoke often of death when the two of them would lie together in her bed early in the morning. The window would be ajar from when he had came through earlier that night, and the sounds of birds chirping before the morning's first light would be the only other sounds beside his quiet voice. She would keep her head lay down on his bare chest and listened, eyes half closed as she stared over at the window.
"Doves," she said one morning.
"No, that's too common, too clichéd," he replied.
The black sky outside the window began to lighten and faded into a deep wine, then dusty rose, then lavendar. He was still there though. He always left before sunrise, but he was still lying next to her. They could hear the sounds of her mother and grandmother down the hall talking and getting ready for church. She sighed heavily, and his scent fill her nostils. Old Spice, soap, sweat, and hemp. He smelled like the earth.
She loved that.
"Then what?" she asked.
"I'm not sure."
Every picture she owned of him, his smile was pained and discreet. Pictures of the two of them with friends and at functions. Sometimes it looked like they were complete strangers. There was one picture she had, however, of just him, shirtless and grinning playfully. He had a small gap between his two front teeth, and one of them was chipped. Though she never told him, she loved his smile, and she didn't have to. When they were alone, he smiled fully for her and laughed.
A chipped tooth suited him.
"Snow?" she asked.
"Yes, snow," he replied one night as they sat facing each other on her bed, both nude.
The only other sounds in the room was a soft breeze the blew through the open window. The sky was getting lighter, and he would be leaving soon.
The birds hadn't started singing that morning yet.
"I've only seen pictures."
"I miss snow. I haven't seen snow since I moved here."
They always sat next to each other in restaurants, yet never made eye contact. Their friends would converse and think nothing of the two of them and the fact that they chose to sit next to each other. He would hold her hand underneath the table most of the time, and other times his hand would wander to between her thighs. Her face would stay the same was she talked across the table to her best friend, though she would find herself wanting to scream out his name as he fondled her there. However, her lips would only tighten when she reached her peak, and his hand would withdraw itself. No one ever noticed.
They never asked.
"I'm going to take you up North one day," he said once.
"What for?"
"To see snow." She sighed heavily and lifted her head from his chest to look down at his face. He was smiling at her, one of his little smiles, though. She frowned and laid back down to look at the window.
The sky was still dark.
"I'm scared of heaven," he said.
"You're not dying," she replied as she watched him dress. He pulled his shirt over his head and glanced over at her and smiled. Full smile, messy hair, and a little chuckle. That made her forgive him that morning. He glanced over at the open window as he heard the first bird.
It was a crow.
"It's like heaven is crying," he said.
"Snow?"
"Yes. It's silent and just drifts in the air. Like crows' feathers."
She frowned, "You're morbid."
"I know." He leaned over and kissed her gently once before trotting over to the window and climbing out it.
She wanted to tell him she loved him.
"It was my mother's. It's all I have left of her." He handed her small gold ring. It was plain, no decoration or engravings on it. Just a small perfect band of gold. They were seated on her bed, fully dressed, excluding shoes and socks. The sky was nearly blue now, and they could hear her grandmother shuffling painfully slow down the hall way towards the room they were in.
"Why give it to me?"
"Because," was all he said.
The door opened.
A gold ring, a photo, and a single long black feather. Those were the items in the old cigar box she carried with her to the funeral. She knew there was nothing in the casket, but she came anyway, wearing white.
He would had wanted her to.
"You wouldn't cry," he had said.
"Yes, I would."
"Okay, then I don't want you to." He sat up from where he was lying; she did the same.
"You're strange."
"I love you."
He had said it first.
She could see for miles where she stood, watching the sunrise alone. It seemed so much more alive than she could had ever remembered watching rise at home, the brilliant ruby light blanketing the world below, trees, stones, the river that snaked over the land, and finally the weathered steps where she was standing. She had sat there alone that night and waited, though she knew that would be the last time she would see him. And she held in her hand a black feather, long and sleek.
There were no birds singing that morning.
"Crows," she said.
"I think you're right. They're soothing." He continued to stroke her hair lovingly as he waited for morning to come. It was still dark, yet they could hear already hear cawing, then finally songbirds.
"Wouldn't you rather hear doves or something?" Julia asked.
Jin made a face, "What?"
"Doves."
"No, that's too common, too clichéd," he replied.
"Then what?"
"I'm not sure."
The door opened.