The Smell of Burning Leaves

"I play party music. I turn my amp up, bring my arm down, and holler." When he said it, he looked away from her, turning to the green grass beneath the old bench.

She wasn't fooled. "You ever listen to Miles Davis?"

He shook his head.

"When you talk, I think of his trumpet. You should sing that way," she said.

"A trumpet? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

∞

"Fall's my favorite season." When she said it, he knew he would sing it. His mind was already humming.

"It smells like death, but I like all the colors. And the smell, actually," she said.

He hushed the humming in his head. "The smell of death?" He was curious and he wanted her to keep her talking. He liked her quiet voice, it felt like she was always telling secrets.

"You know. The smell of burning leaves. Didn't they do that where you grew up? We had one weekend in the fall where everyone would rake their leaves into piles and burn them. It was kinda weird — the fire department was on high alert, standing at attention, and families were burning leaves in the yard. My sisters and I would beg my dad not to burn them, so we could keep jumping in them. All the red and orange and yellow. They looked like fire, and then they were fire."

"The smell of fall and the smell of death. I guess I never thought of it like that."

"No you didn't, did you?" It was an observation, not an inquisition. "You probably never noticed. There's a difference."

"I've seen leaves change."

"Have you though? Have you seen leaves change? Watched them?"

"I've seen the colors. I go with a couple guys to the Boundary Waters every fall." He stretched his arms above his head, recalling the weight of the aluminum canoe on his shoulders. "It's my favorite place."

"But you've never watched the colors change."

"Waited and watched? Like paint drying?"

"No. Just noticed. Appreciated. Reveled."

"Revelry is for the summer."

"Like party music right?" She laughed, quiet, like her voice, like a secret. "Why is it your favorite place?"

He looked her in the eyes, cocking his head a little, wondering what all was in there. "I like the quiet."

"The quiet? What about your hollering?"

He smiled, lips closed together. "I was gonna go once by myself, after college. All alone for a couple of weeks. I drew up the plans, just to go — I don't know — find myself? I thought if I could just get silence for long enough … Anyway. I never went."

"Why?"

"Other things I guess."

"I like your big ideas."

"You better." He reached across the porch, to where she was sitting, cross-legged, in the fold out chair. He touched her cheek. "Because you're gonna have to put up with my follow through."

∞

"Things end you know," she said. "One of us will die first."

The leaves had lost their color. In the last moments of fall, before the cold came in, they sat on the porch again, her crying, him looking at his hands, not knowing what to do with them. He had just returned from the woods. There was always something to do with your hands in the woods.

"I don't understand," he whispered. "I left for four days and now this?" She nuzzled her head into his shoulder, into his chest. He got his fingers stuck trying to run them through her hair.

"Ouch. Hey — Just — " She grabbed his hand and pulled it out of the mess, laughing, her face still wet.

"It's different than splitting wood." He was sheepish about it, a new feeling around her.

"It's not you. It's not your fault."

"Wow. That's the worst line ever." He stood up and wove his fingers together, pulling and cracking his knuckles.

"It's the end of October," she said.

"Yes it is," he said. She looked up at him. The crying started in her eyes, not in the mouth like most people. He watched it happen, noticed it, like changing leaves. "Is it cheesy to say it's not the end of us though?"

"Yes it is," she snorted. "Super cheesy." She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her red sweatshirt. "But I don't mind."

∞

"What do you do in the winter then? It's not the season for party time music."

"Party time music? No. Party music. Party time music makes it sounds like I play for preschoolers."

"Whatever. Party music then. What do you do in the winter?"

"I still play party music. That way everyone can have a party time. Party time!" He pumped a fist. "Maybe I'll change it. Maybe we'll start calling it party time music."

She watched his eyes go, the rest of his insides leaving the room with them. She was never sure where he went, but she didn't care as long as he came back.

"I should make T-shirts."

"Maybe you could spend all winter making T-shirts."

"Not a bad idea." He stood up and she saw that she had lost him for the time. She knew about losing things. She walked to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. She held the sugar dispenser above the cup for a long time and added half-and-half from the refrigerator. She liked the swirl of black to cream when she dipped her spoon in the mug.

"How can you stand it with all the sugar?"

She handed the mug to him. "Try it." He took it from her and sipped from the rim of the glass.

"It's so sweet."

"You only live once. And it's winter outside. I deserve some sweetness."

"You're like a T-shirt machine today. I Deserve Some Sweetness. That's even better than Party Time Music."

She took the mug back from him. "Glad I could help."

∞

"I've been thinking about what you said."

"About what?"

"About how one of us will die first." He looked at the ground and she was scared that it was more than just his eyes that would leave her. "And the end of October. I mean now that I know about your mom and your sister and all. I guess — I mean it must be hard."

She looked at him, clenching her molars, waiting for what she knew was coming. "Yes?"

"And I know I'm a bit of a mess. Like sometimes it must feel like I'm eleven different people or something. Sometimes it feels like that in my head anyway, so I can't imagine what that must be like for you." He looked at her across the porch. It was the first warm day in ages. The air was wet and the snow was falling off the trees in clumps. She kept him there, with her eyes, kept him in the moment.

"It's not so bad."

"But maybe it is. Maybe you just don't want to say. But I have something to say. I want you to think about all this — really think about it — before you say something back. I want you to know that I never feel more like myself then when I'm with you. All winter here, hibernating, I've never felt more comfortable in my skin. More stable."

In the woods behind the apartment, a branch broke, under the weight of the snow. They both turned their heads in the direction of the sound. She was the first to come back. He stayed in the woods.

"People do what they're gonna do, you know? And I guess I'm used to that, doing what I want to do and not worrying about it. But now I'm worrying about it." He turned back to her. "I'm not supposed to worry about anything, you know?" He laughed. "I play party time music, right?" She didn't know what she was supposed to say. "But now I worry about you."

"Why?"

"No, no, I've said it wrong. Don't misunderstand me. What I mean is: I like worrying about you. And I like you worrying about me."

"And?"

"And so I'm changing my vote. Or changing my mind maybe."

"About me?"

"About summer being my favorite. I'll take spring. Give me leaves turning green and birds coming home." He scuffed the grass under the bench, kicking away the snow to see the remnant of green, swinging his leg back and forth. "One of us will die first. But until then I'd like to stay here."

Luke Hawley lives in the cold of Minnesota with his wife, two small kids, border collie, and mother-and-son cats. He moonlights as a songwriter and otherwise spends his time writing, growing a beard, and building bookcases out of old windows.