Now

After you die, your shadow attaches itself to me.

This morning, you stretch long and broad as I begin my walk. I change direction and walk into the sunrise, hoping to shake you off. But there you are, on the ground in front of me in your ludicrous gumshoe hat, like a character in a noir film. 

Yesterday, you ruined my moment with Ben. 

“Go away!” I stomp on your shadow with one foot, then the other.

An elderly lady walking her dog throws me a worried look. 

*

To distract myself, I turn on music, huff when orchestral music soars―it’s your playlist. For you, music had to be “complex, exalting, classical.” You said popular music’s sameness is numbing, that the puerile lyrics will turn my brain into mush.

I believed you.

You were the scientist, all logic and numbers when I craved emotion. You explained relationships clinically, something about matching attributes causing a response within cells. Ben’s your opposite. He lets me be who I am.

I don’t need you to tell me shadows are formed because of the absence of light―any object blocking the rays will create an area of darkness on the other side. But nothing I’ve read explains why the shadow that follows me everywhere is yours, not mine. 

*

Last evening, Ben took me to Fountain Hills to see the famous fountain spray water 500 feet in the air. I knew what was coming because he had one hand in his pocket the whole time, because he’d never taken me to Fountain Hills before, because, unlike you, he likes to make special moments memorable. But just as the majestic fountain rose and he pulled me close, you inserted your unwelcome self between us. My skin erupted in goosebumps and I shivered, moving away from Ben. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, puzzled, hurt. 

The moment evaporated. 

*

I clench my fists, enter a tree-lined avenue, boughs casting patterns on the road. You superimpose your shape over the leafy mosaic. I quicken my pace and you follow, just like you’d chase me with phone calls when I was at the grocery store, at the bank, at lunch with a girl friend. 

I jump to the right. You leap with me. I hop to the left. You pivot as well.

“What do you want?” I shout. 

Remember, I told you voulez-vous means “do you want” in French? Remember you said my tastes were abysmal? Remember, you put your hands over your ears, raised your eyebrows? Remember I stopped listening to what I liked? Remember I watched the movies you liked to watch, read the books you said I should read?

I stop, gather my breath. It’s time to erase your playlist. Your shadow stands still.

I find “Voulez-Vous” on Spotify and when the upbeat instrumentals begin, I move my feet faster, then find the rhythm to dance my way down the road. 

The elderly lady with her canine is seated on a bench at the end of the street. She shakes her head as I approach. Her dog barks, pulls on his leash and paws at your shadow, the shape getting smaller and smaller.

I turn the volume up, sing loud. Your shadow shudders, folds into itself.

________

Sudha Balagopal’s writing appears in Smokelong, swamp pink and Vast Chasm among other journals. Her novella-in-flash, Nose Ornaments, runner up in the Bath contest, has recently been released from Ad Hoc Fiction. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.