Tara, Day by Day by Gareth Vieira

The room is painfully cryptic; outside, the street dissolves into night, shadow and light spills through the window. Jack sits on the edge of the bed in his boxers, hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back, picks up a cigarette from the ashtray, and lights it. Then, he lights a candle with wax flowing down its sides like a frozen river, a sculpture made of flame and patience—an empty wine glass tipped on its side.

Tara shifts under the sheets. Pulls them down to reveal herself. She presses her toes lightly into the small of Jack's back, not affectionate so much as a reminder she is there. They don’t define what this is. They never ask. Day after day, suspended in half-connection.

Jack is drawn to Tara’s messed-up life; it thrills him. Her laughter comes sharp, too quick, her silences even sharper. She has the kind of beauty that looks unmade, as if she’s always just stepping out of sleep. Her dark hair falls loose and uneven, often veiling her green eyes. She wears slips and oversized shirts. Sometimes, when they are high, they exchange outfits like children at play.

Cigarette smoke collects in the corners. The radio plays static over half-forgotten songs. The TV sound is muted, but Tara stares indifferently as Scarlett O’Hara stands at the top of a grand staircase, her gown pooling around her hand resting lightly on the banister. She gazes down at the room below, fierce and unyielding, recycling this scene forever. Tara stares a moment longer before turning away.

On the dresser, a few pills scatter from their bottle. She leans over and brushes one aside with her finger, as if it were nothing. Then she takes the cigarette from Jack’s hand, inhales, and exhales toward the ceiling.

He watches her not with desire exactly, but with a quiet awe that borders on grief. She is here, yes, but always half-elsewhere, laughing at something invisible, drifting into silence as though listening to a voice only she can hear.

“We’re sinking,” she says. Her voice is low, almost part of the static.

Jack waits.

Then she laughs, sudden and brittle. She gives the cigarette back as if nothing had been said at all.

The night presses on, a siren wails outside, then swallowed by the city. Somewhere down the hall, a voice laughs too loudly, a voice fading before it reaches them. Inside the room, time stretches thin and fragile.

Jack stubs out the cigarette, and Tara turns toward the window. The glow of the TV reflects against her, a vision of southern sunset. Her gaze drifts to the window, past the city, into some unreachable place.

Jack studies her for a long while, but says nothing. She doesn’t turn, but she feels his eyes on her.

The room breathes around them, two figures caught between closeness and collapse. Nothing solved. Nothing asked.