All I have is air, paired off into nitrogen and nitrogen, oxygen and oxygen, inhale and exhale. I reach my arm out and there’s nothing. My hand falls through invisible particles that refuse to become the three layer dip of your skin. Inhaling is the hardest part, taking in the elements devoid of you. Close eyes, exhale, open eyes, inhale. How can I need something not touched by you?

In the morning the light forces its way through the dirty window panes. The invisible becomes visible as dust dances, twirling in the light. Maybe it’s the curve of your shoulder, the curl of your hair spinning, smiling. The shaft of air is warm and as I exhale it’s the heat of our bodies but as I inhale it’s cold.

Maybe I’ll grow gills and go looking for you in the dishwasher, next the bathtub. I’ll imagine you water and every breath will surround me in you. I’ll just keep swimming, giving you carbon dioxide and taking your oxygen. When you evaporate I’ll trade in my flaps for lungs and go looking for you where there is nothing, rescue you clinging to pairs of nitrogen and oxygen with inhales and exhales.

The minute her grandmother had given her the teddy bear, Nicola had decided to destroy it.  It was an ugly mohair-covered bear, purple with thick black stitching on its face and paws.  The stuffing had settled in odd places from sitting on a shelf too long.  One shoulder was too thin; one leg bulged at odd intervals.  The tummy was hinged and opened to a mirror.  A tube for lipstick was attached under the right arm.  The mouth hid an atomizer.  Her grandfather had given to it her grandmother soon after they were married.

A gift for Nicola’s 10^th birthday, but it wasn’t really hers.  It was a “keepsake”; it was something to “save for when she had kids.”

Nicola was not going to have kids.

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At midnight I turn off the light and sit in the dark until 2 a.m. This, I have found, is the best time to go visiting.

I go to the drawer where we keep the keys. My wife and I are older than most of the other couples on the block. We’ve lived on this street since we first married and have watched families come and go. It’s a stable neighborhood; homes here are sought after by young couples starting out. We’ve felt no need to move. We’re looked up to here, I believe, and are considered dependable and generous. Our neighbors greet us on the street and in the winter we can usually count on having our walks shoveled for us. Because we rarely travel, we are often asked to watch houses, feed pets, and water plants while the homeowners vacation. We have, therefore, quite a collection of keys. I sift though them now, reading labels, considering choices. Finally, I choose the Whittaker’s key, and slide the drawer closed. I trade my slippers for tennis shoes, slip on my jacket, ease open the front door and step out into the night. The neighborhood is quiet, as one would expect at this hour. I can hear the trucks shifting gears on the highway a mile or so away. In the distance, a dog barks once, twice, and then is still. The air is crisp and fresh, and the sky is clear.

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