Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [3]
Reflecting on the moment much later, Milo would grin, thinking how close he had come to missing the camera bag entirely. Though he had always thought that it was the camera that had changed his life, it was really the bag, filled with those fourteen numbered tapes, that had set things in motion.
Conflagration.
The word filled Milo’s mind as he and Skywalker covered the mile between the park and his apartment. For the trip home, he had placed the video camera into the black bag and slung it over his shoulder, affirming his newfound ownership over the device in one single motion.
Conflagration.
For reasons that he would never understand, this was the latest in a series of hundreds, maybe thousands of words that became lodged in his mind from time to time over the course of his life, though “lodged” was perhaps an understatement. These words appeared suddenly, for no apparent reason, and though they started as a tickle in the back of his mind, they quickly grew to consume every bit of his mental processes, infiltrating the farthest corners of his brain, burning in his head to the point of physical pain until they were at last satisfied.
Conflagration.
The word had been in his thoughts for almost a week, an uncommonly long period of time in comparison to most, and so the pressure and tension building in his head was especially high. No matter what Milo did, where he went or what he thought, conflagration remained in the forefront, serving as an aching, insidious, and insistent distracter to all that he attempted. And as with all previous words, Milo had no idea why this particular one chose to take up residence in his mind, but as with the rest, he knew that there was only one way to rid himself of it. If things went well, he might have to endure the word for only one more day.
Milo’s new home was a one-bedroom apartment on Willard Avenue in the town of Newington, Connecticut, about a mile from his real home, which was currently occupied by his wife, Christine. Milo had been separated from Christine for about three weeks, and he still had yet to completely unpack. Boxes were neatly stacked about the living room and kitchen, and his bedroom furniture consisted only of his bed and desk, both extricated from his home during the rapid departure (or what he thought of as an escape) from his house on Wilson Road.
Milo’s marriage to Christine had been in decline for more than a year when she finally asked Milo for “space,” and after two months of stalling, hoping that things would eventually improve, he finally began taking steps to rent an apartment close to the house in order to accommodate what he thought had been his wife’s request.
Though digging through boxes for a clean pair of underwear was getting old, Milo was not anxious to finish unpacking. Part of him hoped that the separation wouldn’t last long. He and Christine had been married for almost three years, and although there were clearly issues that needed to be worked out between them, he couldn’t imagine permanently upending things over a few squabbles. They had a home, a dog, and a life together, and he had expected them to be discussing children soon. Making such drastic changes to his future seemed incomprehensible.
Nevertheless, for weeks prior to his departure, Milo had begun assembling the items that he thought he might need in the event that he was forced to move out. In the words of his best friend, Andy, “A woman can only ask for space for so long before she’s going to tell you to get the fuck out.” As much as he hated to admit it, Milo knew that his friend was right. Every time Christine broached the topic of space, never specifically requesting a separation but only suggesting the need for some time apart, Milo would acknowledge her comment with a dejected “I know,” but he would say nothing more, waiting for his wife to press the issue. He sensed that Christine did not want to be the one to specifically tell Milo to get the fuck out and was hoping that her husband would instead take the hint and offer to move out on his own.