【by Sydney Smith】
The Alchemist was a man of broad shoulders, cropped black hair, and finely pressed tuxedos. He never spoke, but when he did it was with his eyes, his brows, and his cheeks. He enjoyed the smell of cigarettes and the feeling of the sun slipping under the view of the mountains, when the light felt like it was slipping through him, and he loved the taste of a strong martini on the rocks—but not too many rocks, the gin could be watered down, and when the gin got watered down, that was unthinkable, so maybe only three rocks or maybe just a frozen glass.
The Alchemist was very particular.
Sometimes when The Girl was lonely she would call him up and the two of them would lay on the green and watch chemtrails.
“My dad told me that chemtrails are fake,” The Girl would say, not quite knowing what that meant.
Beside her, The Alchemist would scrunch his nose in disdain—at what, she didn’t know.
The Girl would hum her agreement and try to hold his hand.
He always moved his hand away.
She sat up. She took out a cigarette. She breathed in deep. Beside her, The Alchemist preened under the smoke that went through his head, just as it went to hers. They exhaled together, and she laid back down. The chemtrails had widened, giving space for blue between the white, and she heard the distant hum of an AC unit.
The Girl thinks that The Alchemist was a businessman in a past life, before he was her ghost. He would have been stubborn and masculine, taken with newspapers and good sex and barley. Maybe he played with plastic planes as a child, and that was why she was always bringing him here. The Girl thinks that she would like to know him, as he knows her, and so she thinks of him often, even when he disappears. The Alchemist surely would have had a wife, Mrs. Alchemist, and the two would attend the symphony and sample wine on Saturdays, they would drive slowly to church on Sundays, with motorcycles and the postal service close behind, bumper to bumper. She doesn’t think The Alchemist had children, he was far too surly for that, but maybe he did—perhaps that’s why he was perpetually scowling.
The Girl supposed that she would always be wondering when it came to him.
He was a steady friend, The Alchemist. Last week at the store, The Girl couldn’t find the nectarines for the life of her, and there hidden behind the rows of cauliflower and lettuce, he stood tall, his arm out straight, pointing at the shelf to her left. She turned and there they were, red and yellow and plump. The Girl gave him a lopsided, thankful grin, and she picked out three. One was ripe, two were not.
This weekend, he had been her steady company after a party, walking her home across campus. Tired and maybe a little drunk, The Girl had swayed, and his incorporeal suit brushed her shoulder. A feeling shot down to her elbow, finding its way to her fingers, leaving through the tips of her dark red nails. The Girl had quickly looked up at The Alchemist, brushing the wind-whipped hair out of her eyes and back into the tangled mess upon her brow, but his eyes were forward, his profile proud and straight. His jaw was taut. He had moved ever so slightly away. The Girl had shivered, feeling a cold breeze stir the air around them, and then The Alchemist had left her at her door. The temperature had dropped. He gave her a sad smile. Then, a salute and he disappeared. The Girl thought this odd, as he usually rounded a corner before he went up in smoke—some gentlemanly act, she guessed.
Today, The Girl had again wanted to sit and watch the sky, waiting for planes and the occasional helicopter. She had left her room, walking straight toward the trees where they usually sat, and waved to the boy she sat next to in biology. He didn’t wave back. How peculiar.
When she laid on the grass, she took out a cigarette. She didn’t particularly like them, but she knew The Alchemist did. While she waited, she couldn’t help but think of the brush of their arms—was that the first time they had touched?
She lit the cigarette, The Alchemist’s usual calling card, and waited for him to come.
He never did.
The Girl sat up in the grass and held her shoulder where last night, the skin had run cold and prickly. She lifted the sleeve of her cream sweater. Her arm was a corroded shade of gray, almost as bright as the wool. Dropping the fabric, she stood up, her breathing shallow and her hands nearly transparent. The cigarette, still between her fingers, involuntarily dropped out of her hand, the damp grass quieting the orange embers.
She tried to scream. No sound came out.
Turning around, The Girl saw him behind a tree.
The Alchemist gave her a sad smile.