Inexpressible Island. Paullina Simons

      Every morning when Julian woke up, he was cold. And when he looked outside, it was raining.

      He never left the house without an umbrella.

      On the weekends, if he ventured out at all, he wore his waterproof boots.

      He pretended he went to work. He got up in the morning and put on his suit and walked to Notting Hill Gate station and rode the Circle Line all day. He’d change for another train somewhere, get off at a stop he’d never gotten off before, walk around, staring at the coffee shops, maybe have some lunch in a pub, read, and head home.

      There was no way Julian could go back to Nextel with Nigel still there. It was impossible. Julian knew he could never face him, which was a blessing for Nigel, really. But in August Julian heard that Nigel died of acute alcohol poisoning. Julian wanted to thank someone but didn’t know who.

      After Nigel’s death, he returned to work.

      He stayed until October. He only stayed as long as he did because he liked the reactions of civilized people to his mysterious deformity.

      “How did you say it happened?”

      “I fought a Maori warrior to the death.”

      And they would look benevolently at his slow-moving body and say, sure you did. But you won, right?

      “Right. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here telling you about it.”

      “Of course you wouldn’t. Malcolm, come here. Jules, tell Malcolm what you just told me.”

      “I fought a Maori warrior to the death.”

      “A Maori! Roger, come here, listen to this.”

      Julian enjoyed being mocked. It reminded him of the old days. But soon even that got old.

      After he took the payout and resigned, he spent the winter hanging around the boxing gym. Nobody mocked him there. You couldn’t shock those people with fucking anything.

      “A Maori warrior? Bloody hell, that’s fantastic! Omar, come here, listen to this. Our Jules fought a Maori.”

      “He did? Is that how you lost half your hand? Incredible. But he got it worse, right? Or you wouldn’t be standing here telling us about it. Dead men tell no stories. Rafa, come take a look at Julian’s hand, he fought a fucking Maori warrior.”

      “No fuckin’ way!”

      Julian had been going to Nextel in his leather dress shoes. They were soggy and misshapen because the puddles by the Underground, near Fitzroy House, never dried. It was like being in his water-logged fur boots on the Antarctic ice, sitting in the boat, drinking whisky with Edgar Evans, talking about igloos in barren lands. The shoes never dried in England, all sodden near Sainsbury’s where Julian still bought his milk, reflexively, despite knowing he would never drink it, because he didn’t eat cereal. Ashton had been the one who had cereal.

      Ava, who had moved into Ashton’s room, made no comment about Julian’s dairy purchases. She just threw out the milk when the expiration day came.

      Sometimes when the weather was not great in London and the wind howled, Julian would remember something he didn’t want to in the damp chill and double over. That described his life pretty well. Always trying to avoid remembering something he didn’t want to.

      Once in Invercargill, where the wind also howled in freezing circles, Shae said why are you always like this and he said why are you always like this. They fought like they’d been together a long time, and weren’t on their best behavior anymore, smiling and making compliments, telling each other little jokes, asking cute questions. There was no flirting and no courting. There were no questions. Because they already knew everything there was to know, and it made them sick inside. She knew she was going to die, and he knew he was powerless to stop it.

      Once, even longer ago, the blistering London wind broke his and Ashton’s umbrellas. Cracked them in half. He and Ashton had a good laugh about it. They reminisced about living in a place where it never rained, where, with a million others, they used to sit in traffic on the Freeway or the 405 and curse their life, thinking they had it so tough, the sun always shining, them having to drive everywhere to drink with friends, tell jokes to their girls, buy books at Book Soup.

      And now Julian walked with his head down and no umbrella as he battled the rain, waiting fifteen minutes for the train, the Circle Line so slow. He had a different life now, a life in which every day by Notting Hill Gate, an eight-year-old girl offered to sell him a red rose and said, for your sweetheart, sir? To make her happy?

      And every day Julian bought one.

      His floor was strewn with three hundred dead roses.