By Sarah Clayville
Please.
A strange present – written in cursive on origami paper. Uneven lines and creases means someone tried to fold a crane or a frog but failed. Kooper holds the word in his hand, wondering how it wound up in the pile of fastidiously wrapped packages. He is on a tight schedule. There’s no time for this.
Please.
The other gifts are stacked haphazardly on the bed. Guests sent them ahead of the grand party, and Louise arranged the treasures by color and size as neatly as a photo shoot. She now fusses downstairs in the kitchen with desserts. The time of the party, seven-thirty, is intentional. Too late for anyone to expect a real meal.
Please.
Kooper doesn’t peek at any other gifts, but the green rectangle with the silver bow was intriguingly small, nearly miniature. He now stares at the word the box contained, wondering if it is a puzzle to a larger present. Then he feels like shit for wanting more than what he has.
Please.
Guests arrive fashionably late. Louise’s friends mostly. Kooper’s mates self-destructed after 40. Louise saved him, peeling away his vices one by one, polishing his naked core into the man who stands in front of the mirror today. Muscles bulge from his calves. When he reaches for things, there is a strain, a tightness from repetition at the gym. If you do the same action over and over again, Louise tells him, you become impenetrable.
Please.
Kooper is a master at Crosswords. Scrabble. Boggle. This word is impossible. Six letters, usually a verb. What is someone asking of him? Why is the word written so neatly with sharp edges? This is not a begging please. This one demands through gritted teeth, a dangerous word. The please followed by a threat if he doesn’t comply.
Please.
The navy striped tie presses against his Adam’s apple. Kooper can’t swallow and decides to open a second gift. Fifty fucking years old. He’s not a child and can open what he wants. The Robinsons give him a month of golf lessons. Another. The Smiths buy him a coffee table book about the museums of London. One more. The Levys personalize a pair of black cufflinks with his initials ground into the metal. His real friends wouldn’t know where to send a present, if they were still around.
Please.
The gifts are all stripped down on the bed. Monuments of wrapping paper stand along the ground. The first floor of the brownstone vibrates with droning couples, an orchestra of bullshit conducted by Louise. This isn’t a birthday party. This is Kooper’s funeral, and he’s dressing for the occasion.
Please.
He crumples the paper tight in his fist and then swallows it, loosening his tie. Sure, things pass through but the ink seeps into his bloodstream. He straightens his tie again, brushes his hair. He trims a jagged fingernail and practices smiling in the mirror. When he comes down the stairs, everyone applauds. Louise nods in approval. Only Kooper knows.
About the chaos upstairs in the bedroom.
About the mystery word seething in his gut.
About the train ticket booked on his phone.
He will vanish at dawn, and they can all do as they please…without him.
* * *
Sarah Clayville is a teacher and author who writes and dreams from the wilds of central Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in several dozen publications, she is a fiction editor for the journal Identity Theory, and her children’s novel debuted in June 2023. More of her work can be found online at SarahSaysWrite.com.