Coe Review

The Desert Between Us
Thomas Boulan
Annie crosses the street in front of me, and I slide down behind the
steering wheel. I've been sitting in my car for fifteen minutes. I don't want
her to know I've been waiting. In one hand she holds a small, brown bag,
and in the other her black cane. A stiff October breeze blows through her
wavy hair, and I worry her ears are cold and that she's shivering under her
fleece jacket. Her hands are bare, too; she should be wearing her gloves.
When she reaches her building, she hobbles up the four steps to the entrance
and goes inside. I count to twenty-five and leave the warmth of my car.
Tapping her door, I listen as the thump of her cane moves towards
me. My heart rocks—it knows I haven't seen her in days. She says hello
tentatively, with caution.
"Annie, it's me. Dennis."
I smooth my hair, and the door opens in front of me. She flashes me a
smile and gives me a stingy hug. We begin to pull away, and I impulsively
brush her cheek with mine. She lays a hand on my chest and mouths the
word Don't.
Annie gestures towards a chair covered with a fraying yellow quilt in the
living room. "Have a seat," she says. "We can share my chicken soup."
I take off my coat, fall into the chair, and kick off my shoes. The
apartment is drafty, and I hug myself, thinking, come on, Annie. Your exhusband
sends you plenty of money—why don't you turn up the heat?
She moves around the cramped kitchen. On the counter, near the
refrigerator, is an army of small containers, medication for arthritis and an
assortment of vitamins and supplements. Her toaster and blender are draped
with hand-sewn covers made of fabric scraps, and a perfect line of five pot
holders hangs on the wall above the stove. The quilt she's been sewing is
draped over a chair, and her journal and pen sit in the middle of the table.
Annie's wearing loose-fitting jeans and a pink sweatshirt with "SAVE THE
SEALS" on front. The sweatshirt looks odd on a forty-seven-year-old
woman, but I know she couldn't care less. Her long hair, normally pulled
back with headband, hangs lifelessly at her shoulders. This is a sign—the
pain is bad today.
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