Gray Eyes, Crazy

Beneath the dim light of a singular bulb, Lawrence wipes the beads forming above his brow. The wood cabinet above his knees is worn at the edges, creaking at his softest touch. Lawrence puts his elbows into the familiar niche of the cabinet, hanging his neck and resting his face into his hands. For a moment he considers floating away, a dream unsung to the rubbing of his eyes until he sees phosphenes. The white sheets, neatly tucked and untouched, fruitlessly beckon as another night passes. Hardly opening his eyes, the slow hum of the sewing machine whirls in the still air and the bulb flickers a memorable rhythm. Lawrence steadily pushes the leather into the machine, catching his fragile bone under the needle.

“Careful now,” he chuckles to himself, collected. The blood drips down the leather, gliding down the curves and splattering at his bare feet. A scrap of fine white silk will do, cutting it measured to size and wrapping it taught on the wound, he tightens his jaw.
“You’ve held up beautifully,” he murmurs, smoothing it flat. The leather is supple tonight, between his fingertips is a familiar grain. The sewing machine hums fast, then slow. Lawrence pulls the garment from the machine and lays it down on his bench, cutting the white threads that fray at the edges. 

Eyelids heavy on his gray eyes, Lawrence admires his work as he brushes his fingers through his white, scraggly beard. The bulb flickers again and Lawrence closes his eyes for another moment. He can see it now. The camera’s flashing his finest attire. Everybody watches him closely, wanting to know his every thought. What was your inspiration? Who are you? Where did you get this fine, fine leather? He can taste it.

The singular swallow of tea has gone cold, less tea than he thought. How long? He drags his tongue against the roof of his mouth and out of his mouth to no avail of moistening his cracked lips. Lawrence presses his palms against the cabinet and rises carefully. The room blurs all at once, then settles as always. With reverence, he lifts the jacket to the light, shaking it slightly until it falls into its proper shape. Perfect.

 He runs his fingers through his beard again, pulling pieces out with each sweep and letting them fall to the floor. Adjusting himself back into this old wooden chair, Lawrence’s vision goes for a moment. He blinks hard until his vision fades back, and the bulb lets out one last breath before surrendering to the cool gray light of the early morning. 

“Lawrence,” an echoed whisper calls to him from where he cannot see. He turns too quickly from the window to his white sheets, tucked in until the spotting fades. One last seam. He gathers his threads from the floor to wind his bobbin with trembling fingers.

“Keep it together Lawrence.” Banging his head with his old boney hands, keep it together.

He can feel each stitch as the machine shakes the leather further, then it’s over. Palms to the niche in the cabinet again, he lifts his old, frail bones from his seat with the suit pieces in hand. He can see the staining now in the rising morning light. Blood. The silk had come unwound, his fingers glow red in the light now. Abstract. He can no longer wait to try on his design. He slips one boney arm in and then the other, feeling the warmth of this most pristine work. Swaying from one side to another as he fits his legs into the pants, he fastens the zipper and looks to the mirror. 

The morning light claims another inch of the room. Gray settles across his face, highlighting each wrinkle of his time. The suit sits on him the way the leather allows. The shoulders slope down without crease and the waist hugs in on his protruding ribs. Every inch of his body relaxes in this morning light as the leather soaks in his blood and appears alive again. Lawrence leans in close to the mirror, naked, with nothing to distinguish the man from the suit.
“Perfect.”