Unseen
A Romance Short Story
The canister had always been there, rolling around at the bottom of his duffle bag. Whenever he packed, his fingers would brush over its smooth, gray top, but he never took it out, never looked directly at it. Sometimes, when he unpacked, the canister would get tangled in a dirty sock or wedged in a pocket, and it would turn up with a handful of clothes as he was about to toss them into the washing machine. Whenever this happened, Jake would carefully retrieve the black cylinder and tuck it back into the bottom corner of his bag.
That’s where it belonged. That’s where it stayed. For years.
It had been so long, he no longer remembered what was on the film, what pictures could be frozen there on the tiny strip of celluloid.
When Maggie died, Jake was lost. He left his job, gave up their apartment, packed a few things into his duffle bag, and left town. He gave up on himself, letting his hair grow long and his beard turn white.
He drove the highways aimlessly, calm behind the wheel of their beloved ’69 Charger. Maggie loved that car more than most things, and with her gone, seeing her seat empty on the right was like a knife to the side every time he looked. In the late afternoons, he could imagine Maggie there; her small hand hanging out the window, fingers floating in the air. He could see the…
