Soft Collisions

He was small, small enough that, sprawled across a double bed, he barely covered a quarter of it. Soft and pudgy, he had no visible muscles, yet his posture was impeccable from a lifelong effort to stand up straight, hoping to gain an inch or two.
She stood three and a half inches taller, her waistline wider by the same difference. When they hugged, it was like clouds colliding, dissolving into each other as their folds melted into the other’s arms. They hugged often and he didn’t mind her arms overpowering his being.

Clothing was never a concern; everything in their shared wardrobe fit them both perfectly. They didn’t have much money and wore neutral clothes, the only things they didn’t share were shoes and underwear. Their life could fit in a suitcase, their monthly meals could be made from just one cupboard of groceries, and all the money they possessed could fit in just one wallet.

In the mornings, he’d bring her breakfast in bed, unfazed by the fact that her breath smelled like an abandoned coffee shop laced with garlic. She had an appetite and ate with joy, accidentally eating his share, sometimes leaving him a little hungry. He never complained, as every lunchtime she’d make him sandwiches where there were always leftovers. She never understood the delicate nature of spices, but he ate her meals happily and hungrily, knowing they were made with love.

Sundays were for church, but they didn’t believe in God. Their only faith was in each other. He wore the one suit he owned, and she wore the same dress she had worn on their wedding day twenty-five years ago. Hand in hand, they walked to church just as they had on that day.

He was a plumber, his hands calloused from long, gruelling hours at work. Silence had once been his comfort until he met her. Now, when he came home, his quiet world filled with the sound of her endless daily chatter. And in those rare moments when silence returned, it no longer soothed him. It unsettled him.

In the evenings, he would fall asleep on her lap, comforted by the rise and fall of her rotund belly as she read her books, laughing and snorting interchangeably and quietly loudly at random pages. At night, she’d curl up against his pillow-like chest, where strawberry-scented curly hairs sprouted like the watercress she lovingly grew in her kitchen. He snored loud enough to arouse a village, but they were like a lullaby to her partially deaf, wax-clogged ears.

One day he woke up feeling cold for the first time since their marriage. Without the sweatiness of her plump body pressing against his arm in an awkward embrace, he felt physically comfortable. No more numb limbs, but now a limp heart. Her snorty laughter no longer filled the room over breakfast. Eventually, he stopped seeing the point of breakfast altogether. The hunger helped him pretend she had eaten his share yet again.

Eventually her faked presence became unbearable, and he wanted to forget her existence entirely. He waxed his chest, no longer wanting to smell her strawberry-scented shampoo. He bought new clothes as her essence still lingered in the wardrobe he refused to open. He slept on the floor, determined not to lie on anything soft ever again. 

But it wasn’t enough—he couldn’t forget her.