It had been a sticky and stifling day when they met. The train had had a delay so the two of them, sitting next to each other as sweat dripped down their wrinkled brows, began to talk. Alison remembers this quiet conversation they first had discussing the heat, the annoyance of the trains, their families, and hometowns.

Oh, I know that town in Boston! My brother lives there.

What a coincidence.

Oi, this heat! It is the worst it has been this year!

Oh yes, I know that building. I pass it on my way to work.

But here, at this moment, she wasn’t listening to him at all. Instead, she was focusing on the distinct sounds that filled the world around her: The Q-Train passing on the overground bridge,the sound of the water beginning to boil in the kettle, the buzzing of their refrigerator, the waves crashing on the shores of Coney Island. It’s too loud, Alison thought, how can I focus with all this noise? Her ears filled and her mind fuzzed over.

“Are you even hearing what I’m saying, don’t you understand?” he asked her.

“It’s too loud. I can’t focus.”

Mark leaned his upper body on the small kitchen island they had, resting his head into hishands. “I want to make this work. I do. What do you want? What would make you happy?” his tone was resigned.

Though he was almost a foot taller than her, the desperate look in his eyes made her feel like she was towering over him. Truthfully, all Alison really wanted was some peace. She wanted the trains to stop racing, the water to boil quietly, their refrigerator to stop working, and for the ocean to retreat its waves to someplace far away from here. But, of course, she couldn’t tell him that. He would never understand. Or maybe he would. But she had decided that she would not risk it.

Alison was from a small town right outside of Boston, had gone to church on Sundays, private school on the business days, and eventually went to Princeton for economics. She had had a life of nightly family dinners and large Christmas trees with piles of presents underneath them. Mark, on the other hand, was from an upstate New York town that had a family five-and-dine parallel to a place dubbed by the truckers as a “tit-stop.” He had grown up around far-right-wing farmers who believed that the most difficult thing to be was a poor white man, copious amounts of drug use, and the teen hang-out spot being the Walmart parking lot off Highway 25.

After a moment of silence, she finally said “I don’t want much of anything.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

What a strange question, she thought. She looked down at the blue nail polish that she had painted on a few days ago to distract from her picked, bloody cuticles. She began peeling parts of it, leaving the polish looking chipped and messy.

The scream of a loud whistle sounded throughout the tiny apartment. They both looked up to see the kettle had finished boiling the water.

What a horrible sound, she thought. She got off the stool she was perched on and rested her feet on their rather ugly carpet: bright green with random splotches of blue in odd places. When her foot sank into the rug, she felt a damp squish on her bare toes, and remembered that she had accidentally spilled a glass of wine on it a few minutes prior. Her foot was wet when she walked over into their small kitchen, pulling out a mug from the top cabinet.

Mark had never seriously acknowledged Alison’s infidelity. The fights they had were stemmed from her numerous affairs, yet she continued to act as though it was a secret and he continued to act as though she was just difficult, different from the other girls: special.

In all honesty, Alison did not know why she cheated. Perhaps she had difficulty feeling secure in this relationship, perhaps she never truly was able to emotionally catch up to how fast they had moved together. It had only taken one week for Mark to leave Beth, two for them to officially become a couple, and three to move in with one another. After the third month, Mark proposed to Alison.

Alison took down a large mug and poured the hot water over her chamomile tea, releasing awarm flowery scent into their walk-in-like kitchen. She cupped her bare skin around the ceramic mug, burning her skin. She sat back down and looked at her tea. That is a comforting smell. She had almost forgotten that Mark was still standing there, watching over her.

“Beth tells me that you would never make a good wife,” he said.

This took Alison’s breath away for a moment. Beth was a nice girl: pretty, sweet, judgmental. She had met her only once at an art gallery in Midtown. She remembered how Beth gravitated towards the paintings filled with more color and how she disliked the paintings that Beth loved. They were too simple, she thought, Beth is pretty but not very emotionally intelligent. I’d like to paint Beth, paint her in blue and green, I’d like to paint over her mouth with red so she cannot breathe.

“Why don’t you just marry her then?” Alison responded.

She had anticipated that Mark might say something along the lines of how he loved her, of how he wanted her, of how Beth was not interesting enough for him. Alison was an artist and Beth was a lawyer; of how he wanted to have a life filled with importance.

Instead, Mark looked at her and softly said, “I don’t know.”
 
 “What do you want me to do, call off the wedding? You proposed to me. You know me. I told you I was not going to fucking change for anyone.”

“Jesus, Alison. I am not asking you to change. I am asking you to love me, which, frankly, I don’t think you do.”

“What do you know?” She was sharp with her responses. Suddenly, the burning of the ceramic on her hand bothered her a bit more. She placed the cup down and slouched forward, placing her whole upper body on the counter. He does not even want me. He never wanted me. He doesn’t love me. Her head filled with angry thoughts and eventually the emotional shock of the whole situation dripped down into her stomach, where she felt a pain that she knew could only be cured by screaming into a pillow or Mark’s face. She imagined pouring hot water onto Mark’s red spotty cheeks, hot water with a scent of flowery tea, burning Mark’s lying, cheating, face.

“I just, Alison, I just don’t know what to do anymore.” He tried to make eye contact with her, but she was reluctant to do so. “I don’t want to live like this.”

“Why not?” She liked her life. There were small things here and there that she wished could be changed, the noise for one; the smothering of Mark, the stress to pay the bills on time, the existence of Beth. Still, at the end of the day, she wasn’t too unhappy.

“I just need some fresh air. I’ll see you later.” He grabbed his coat and walked out.

He came back much later that night when Alison had fallen asleep on their couch. He took out a suitcase and began packing up his most valuable things. Alison sat up for a moment, watched him leave her, and then, in an act of defiance, went back to sleep. He’s not serious. He would never leave me. He will never meet anyone like me again. He’ll be back eventually.

That was the last she ever saw of him; he never came home to get his toothbrush, clothes, or anything else. As the days got longer and cracks in the sidewalk began to grow wildflowers, she remained sitting on the couch waiting for him. A few months later, on midday of July 22nd, she got a letter from him. He had written to her that the wedding was off. It was warm that day, one of those wonderful summer afternoons where it is not too hot, not too humid, but just right. He’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. He doesn’t think I will take him seriously. He thinks that I will use the return address to track him down. He thinks I will use his contact information to call him. I would like to see him being run over by the Q-Train. I would like to tie him down to the railroad tracks with rope and watch him be run over. Again, out of a moment of anger and defiance, she threw out the letter, not because she did not want to get married to him, but because she believed that by ignoring him, he would see what a mistake he was making and return to her. This will pass. He will come home.

He never called; never came to grab the things he couldn’t fit in his suitcase on the night he left. One day, Alison was sitting on her sofa and saw all the books, posters, records that Mark had left. I’ll sell his stuff. He thinks I’m going to cling onto his shit, that I am going to try and get him back and get him to come home. If I sell his stuff that will show him. Then he will come back because he isn’t serious. He would never actually leave me.
 
And so that is what she did: she sold his clothes, his vinyl records, including the ugly old greenrug with a wine stain on it, on one summer afternoon. She set up a stoop sale and gave away his things at absurdly cheap prices: thirty cents for this, a dollar for that... She sat on her stoop all day and smoked a cigarette, wondering if this was the day that Mark would come home. If he comes back today and sees me selling his stuff that will show him how much I don’t care. I hope he comes back home today so he can see me not caring.

When she went back upstairs, the apartment was barren; she had sold almost everything because almost everything in their apartment was Mark’s. She sat back down on the couch and waited for him to come home, keeping the phone at arm’s length just in case he called to say he loved her. She imagined how that conversation would go: I’m coming home. I miss you. I’m sorry. I need you. She fell asleep on the couch that night with the hot summer wind being pushed around by the small fan she used to keep cool. She dreamed that he never left, that when she asked why he didn’t just marry Beth he responded with because I love you.

It was winter now, and the trees were naked and dead. That day the Q-Train had gotten stuck somewhere along Kings Highway and her refrigerator was no longer working. It had broken awhile ago, she just never got around to fixing it.

Alison tried to listen to the noises around her, but all she could hear was the faint sound of the waves crashing on the shores of Coney Island. It’s too quiet, she thought. I should put some music on. I hate how quiet it is. She went over to where she had usually stored their vinyl records but, of course, they weren’t there.

That winter night she sat down on her stool and listened to nothing but the buzzing in her head. If only, she thought, if only I had some noise to distract me.