I was working on the report that had been dogging me for the past four months. It was a simple job, really. There was no need for it to be so taxing, yet I couldn’t seem to focus. I was a consultant for a company that advised various fast food chains. I would calculate the savings incurred by slicing tomatoes to x thickness instead of y thickness. I also reported the results of studies conducted by my company’s chemists. The chemists would figure out how many additives, emulsifiers or fillers could be added to a product before it lost palatability. The results were turned into equations which could be used to create cost efficient recipes. I’ve always been good with numbers, so the job of efficiency expert was both easy and satisfying for me. I liked the process of reducing everything to its most necessary parts, but an unfocussed inertia had come over me in the past few months.

I was staring at a bar graph on the computer screen and all I could think of was how my collar was kind of itchy. My toes felt all bunched together at the front of my shoe. I couldn’t stand the way my toes were all touching each other. They felt hot. My waistband was pressing against my abdomen and I kept pulling it away from my skin. I had a private office, so I saw no harm in taking my shoes off. That felt better. Then I pulled my socks off and propped my feet up on the desk. I started to rub each of my toes, giving each one a nice twist between my index finger and thumb. My trousers dug into my stomach more as I bent forwards manipulating my digits, so I undid my top button. I felt a little better and looked at the bar graph again. The bars on the screen looked like little towers. I pictured tiny people or animals living in them, opening secret doors and windows, waving to me. I’d been feeling increasingly aimless and odd lately. I was having an internal rebellion. At five o’clock, I left the office having achieved nothing once again.

After work I went to visit Celeste in the hospital. I had bought her a candy bar in the gift shop, but I knew I’d probably end up eating it. Celeste didn’t eat. When we were first married, she ate lots. She had shelves of cook books. She used to make candy. Beautiful candy. She made marshmallows. I didn’t even know you could make marshmallows until Celeste made them one night. They were pink and yellow. She had flavoured the pink ones with rose water and the yellow ones with lemon extract. I thought she was a wonder. She was expansive and maudlin. She was carnal. Now she looked like a shriveled, mummified saint.

“Hi, Celeste. How are you?” I asked.

“Did you bring me a candy bar?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s a Mounds bar. You know, the one with coconut.”

“Eat it and tell me how it tastes.” This was one of the few things that sparked her interest anymore. Her features looked axe-hewn, all sharp angles and beaky nose as she peered at the chocolate bar with a crow’s gaze, head turned to the side, a beady eye fixed on the prize.

“Why don’t you try a little, Celeste? Just suck a bit of it. It’s good.” I unwrapped it and held it close to her nose. Her face was impassive, like a cigar store Indian.

“You know I can’t do that. Please, eat it for me. It’s all I’m allowed.”

“It’s all you allow yourself to have. You’re the one creating these rules.”

“Please, just tell me how it tastes.” I knew I was going to give in and yet every time I did, I felt as if I’d failed her. My eating the chocolate was always some dubious and morbid victory for her in her drive to eliminate herself. I took a bite of the bar, chewed it slowly and swallowed.

“It’s chewy. The coconut forms a sweet chewy mass, made up of little shreds. The flavour is mild and tropical, like sun-tan oil. The chocolate melts into the coconut adding a dark rich taste that makes me think of sandalwood.”

“Tell me more.”

“It coats my mouth. I can still taste it.”

“I shouldn’t ask you to do this. I don’t deserve it. I don’t know why you bother to visit me. You have so many important things to do.” I felt as if she was playing a game with me, but I was never sure what it was.

I spoke with her doctor before I left. He told me her heart was being eaten, digested by her hungry body. It wouldn’t be long, maybe a few weeks until she was gone.

That evening, I sat in the kitchen looking at photographs of Celeste. Ten years ago she’d been lush. Her hair had been full and curly, her skin oily and smooth. I don’t know what happened. She’d turned in the other direction. She lost interest in herself, in being alive. She became tired of wanting and eating.

“I feel wrong. Like I’m oozing all over the place. My flesh is out of control,” she’d say. I’d come home sometimes to find her smacking her arms and legs with a wooden spoon. She wouldn’t sleep in our bed anymore. Instead she slept on a plank in the laundry room. She would eat only a thin porridge once a day. No clinic or therapist helped. Over the years, I had let go of the old Celeste and accepted this fate. I’d found comfort in the simplicity of my work, but now even that was coming apart.

I had to do a presentation for a Burger King conference the next day. I was demonstrating ways of cutting costs through effective scheduling. I stood on a podium before a group of suited up men and women, pointing to various charts.

“So by minimizing hours, entitlement to holiday pay can be eliminated, creating a minimum ten percent increase in net profits. The increase is illustrated on this pie chart here.” I stared at the pie chart before me and thought about a cherry pie. Not a canned cherry pie, but a real cherry pie filled with purplish-black cherries oozing dark juices. “The cherry skins pop and squish out the flesh of the fruit. The flavour is simultaneously acidic and alkaline, sweet and tangy.” The audience members looked at me with puzzled expressions. “Pardon me. Wrong speech,” I said. There was some chuckling and shifting of seats and I continued with my talk.

When I was done, I left the conference centre and headed for the hospital. Celeste lay under the pale blue blankets, her body like carefully laid out twigs, barely discernable. “I brought a mango today,” I said. Celeste squinted at me.

“The light is too bright. I don’t care about the mango.” Her head had been shaved on one side and an IV was dripping fluid into a vein on her skull. “I’m tired of senses. I just want to rest. There’s too much information. I’m filled with information.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to want anything. Go home and do something nice for yourself.” She closed her eyes. I sat by her for the next two hours doing nothing. She didn’t move or speak when I kissed her goodbye, but I know she was awake.

When I got home that night, I packed all my books into boxes I’d gotten at the liquor store. I’d been slowly packing up all my possessions for months. When Celeste was hospitalized, I lost interest in our home. I began to pack up all the knick-knacks and art, all the unnecessary things. Celeste had chosen and purchased all the festoonery in our home. Before we’d met, I’d been living in a furnished apartment. It had been decorated with drab, beige and brown furniture, covered in scratchy upholstery. Paintings of badly executed landscapes and schooners decorated the walls. I was indifferent to my surroundings, being primarily interested in function. Now that Celeste was gone, I was moving towards a functional existence again.

I opened a can of mini ravioli and sat at the kitchen table. I ate it straight out of the can while looking at some recent reports from the chemists. I shoveled raviolis into my mouth, barely tasting them. Then I continued to pack my belongings. Soon I would be down to practically nothing. My goal was to have one bowl, a knife, fork, and spoon, two outfits of clothing, and a sleeping bag.

The next day, I went to the office to work on the report. It was Sunday, so no one was there. I sat at my desk, staring at a series of facts and figures. When x amount of wood pulp is added to bun dough, y amount of flavouring is required. I thought about my years at the company. I’d taken the job when Celeste had started to get really sick, about seven years ago. I’d been a mildly successful poet before. This was where my pleasure in the sparse and the efficient came from: the economy of poetry. All the specialists and medical treatments Celeste required cost money and my sporadic earnings couldn’t pay the bills, so I took this job. I found it therapeutic. The model of economy I pursued in my work was a tangible and comforting goal. It had cast Celeste’s self denial in a different light.

I continued to grind away at the report, but a nagging sensation kept tugging at me. I needed to loosen up. I stood and stepped back from the desk. I began to turn my torso from side to side, allowing my arms to swing freely and slap against my trunk. I thought about music. When was the last time I’d listened to music? I thought about what Celeste had said, “Go home and do something nice for yourself,” and I turned on the radio, scanning the band for something familiar, something lively. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice sailed out from the speakers like a sonic ripple rising from a silver bell. The way you wear your hat. The way you sip your tea. The memory of all that. No, no, they can’t take that away from me. The way your smile just beams. The way you sing off key. The way you haunt my dreams. No, no, they can’t take that away from me. I saw Celeste: Celeste eating ice-cream, Celeste crying at the movies, Celeste making me pull her finger. I swear I’d never wanted her to be any different. I turned off the radio, shoved the report into my briefcase and left the office. I headed for the hospital.

“I brought you some flowers,” I said, showing Celeste the bouquet of sweet, yellow tea-roses I’d bought.

“I don’t want them. They’re a waste, dying as we speak. Dropping petals. Rotting.” She turned her head away from the flowers.

“Would you like me to bring you a stick or a rock next time? Maybe an old, dry bone?”

“Yeah, bring me some hair from an old locket. Bring me a used dryer sheet. Bring me a company report,” she said. Her voice was quiet and hoarse. She was still funny, still sharp, even now.

“You know, I still love you,” I said.

“Yeah, I know, but it’s too late. I can’t turn back. Even if I changed my mind right now, the result would be the same.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s never too late. We’re all going to die. No one knows when. Why don’t you just smell these flowers?” I held the flowers beneath her nose. She inhaled.

“Sweet… Soft… I love tea roses. I love wild roses. The little ones with open dusty pink petals.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “You have to go now.”

“But, why?”

“You’re hurting me. The roses are hurting me. Please get out.” She was shuddering. Her bird-like bones rustled the sheets.

“It hurts to live. Do you think I don’t hurt watching you? You act as if you’re so unimportant, but you expect everyone to watch as you destroy yourself. It hurts to look at you. You act like a saint, but you’re selfish.”

“I know I’m selfish. I’m bad. That’s why I live this way.”

“Everyone is bad. I’m not letting you off the hook. We’re all bad, but we keep living and trying. It hurts to want, but we all keep wanting.”

Celeste glared at me, her shuddering had intensified. Her teeth were chattering. She pushed the button on the wall, by her bed.

“It’s okay to be wrong. You are no better or worse than anyone else,” I said. A nurse came into the room just then.

“You rang? Do you need something?” she asked. Celeste turned her head towards me.

“Get him out of here. He’s upsetting me. I think he’s drunk. He might be dangerous.” The nurse turned to me and gave me a sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

“No.” I sat on a chair by Celeste’s bed and gripped its armrests. “I won’t leave. This is my wife. She’s dying. You’ll have to force me.”

“Your wife has a weak heart. You could kill her by behaving this way. Do you understand?” The nurse offered me her hand. “Let it go.”

“She’s dying anyhow. I just want her to really live for a little longer. She hasn’t been truly alive in years. I haven’t been truly alive in years. We need to be with each other. I know I can change her mind. I know…” I slumped down, rendered mute by my own sobbing.

“Go home and get some sleep, Mr. Krenshaw. Come back tomorrow.” The nurse took my hand and led me to the door. Celeste lay on the bed, shaking her head from side to side.

“It’s all my fault. I’m bad. I wreck everything.” She lay there, reciting her endless litany of self importance.

“Get over yourself!” I barked over my shoulder. “Get over yourself and start living!”

When I arrived home that night, I finished packing up my belongings. The Salvation Army was coming the next day to pick them all up. I got my old backpack and tent out. I had an army kit of utensils and a tin cup and bowl. I had sturdy shoes and weather-proof clothing. I was ready. The new tenants would be moving into the house in two days. I slept that night on the floor of the empty house.

The next morning I bathed, put on my gear and headed for the office. I knocked on the boss’ door when I arrived. I had the report in my hand.

“Enter!” I stepped into his office, which looked exactly like mine, decorated in cheap, modern Ikea furniture. He sat before me, scanning reams of statistics.

“I’ve finished the report,” I said, placing it on his desk. “I’m afraid I won’t be coming back after today. I resign.”

“What do you mean? You have to give sufficient notice. You can’t just leave. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Why don’t you take some time off?” He looked at the pack on my back, the tent hanging from its bottom, the pot dangling from its side. “Going camping?”

“Yeah. Going camping.”

“Well, we’ll talk about this later.”

“Sure. Later.”

“I’ll call you in a few days.”

“Right. I’ve gotta go,” I said, turning to leave. I left his office and headed for the hospital. I thought of the report I’d handed him and chuckled. It was poetry: poems about candy bars, roses, cherry pies, and cigar store Indians. I’d doodled pictures of little creatures living in bar graphs beneath the poems. On the way to the hospital I stopped in a small grocery store and bought a bag of pastel coloured marshmallows.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was informed by Celeste’s doctor that her condition had worsened. Her heart wasn’t supplying her brain with enough oxygen. She was slipping away. I entered her room. Tubes ran into her nostrils, her chest, and the vein on her head.

“I’m here,” I said. “I quit my job. I’m going to start writing again.” Celeste couldn’t speak anymore, but I noticed a slight motion of her arm. She raised a bony thumb up. “You’re happy about that?” She nodded slightly. “Good. Let me tell you about the marshmallows.”

I pitched my tent in a hidden corner of a residential park that night. The air smelled rich, like wet leaves and earth. Small nocturnal animals scuttled and chittered around me. I would stay with Celeste until she died and then move on.

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