Untouchable, In Your Arms
- a short story of longing, and how the past haunts the present
Untouchable, In Your Arms
-by S. Francis Burns
The rain has been falling for days in the Pacific Northwest. It beads on the streetlamps, slides down the glass, works its way into my shoes until each step squelches. Downtown is slick pavement, gutters overflowing, the smell of wet wool rising off strangers hunched under awnings. Sirens cry out somewhere in the distance, climbing, falling, climbing again. I stop and listen, wondering if this time it’s you.
A man in a hurry passes with a shopping cart stacked to its breaking point, plastic bags, blankets, and at the very top, a single car tire balanced like a crown. He pushes it as if it were nothing. I almost laugh. You don’t see that in the brochures.
I keep walking. My shoes aren’t built for this. The squelch gets worse. Once you told me the region should issue flippers instead of driver’s licenses. The thought sneaks up on me now, and for a moment, I almost smile. Then the rain runs down my collar, cold against my spine, and the moment dies.
At the corner a group waits under a half-collapsed awning, smoke glowing in their circle. They pass the glass pipe hand to hand, openly, as though smoking on a wet sidewalk were no more remarkable than drinking coffee. No one looks away or hides it. No one calls it what it is. Their faces sag, eyes distant, not violent, not loud, just shadows of whoever they must have been. I keep moving, heart clenching: are you there, just beyond my sightline, one shadow among others?
A couple ahead struggles with an umbrella that keeps turning inside out. They’re laughing, faces pressed close, trying to stay dry under a canopy that’s given up. Their laughter leaks into the night, and suddenly I’m back in our kitchen, bare feet on worn linoleum, the single bulb swaying above, country music twanging from a little radio. You pulled me into the middle of the floor, grinning, hips loose, hands tugging. Mine stiff as fenceposts.
“Were you in some kind of accident?” you teased, doubling over with laughter. “Is that why your hips don’t move?”
I tried to play it off, exaggerating my clumsy steps, and you laughed harder, pressing your forehead to mine, your hair sticking damp to your cheek. I felt alive, wanting you. That laugh, half mischief, half joy, filled the whole room. For a moment, our bare kitchen became a ballroom.
The umbrella flips again, snaps the memory shut. Just strangers on a wet street, laughing. I walk on, shoulders hunched, shame prickling the back of my neck and I pull my jacket tight.
A man stands by a boarded-up shop, muttering into the rain. His hands rise and fall as though preaching to a hidden congregation. Snatches reach me as I pass: “…and the flood came, and the house fell, and great was the fall of it… the sheep wandered, the shepherd wept…” His voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. I keep moving, the sermon trailing me like smoke.
Sirens swell again, closer now. I freeze, pulse quickening. For a moment I think, what if it’s you this time? But the sound veers away, fading into another part of the city.
I’ve been walking these streets for months, maybe years, off and on, whenever the silence gets too loud. Each time I tell myself I’ll know you when I see you.
A bus exhales at the curb, its windows fogging. I’m thrown back to that drive south in the rattling car, heater broken, our breaths clouding the windshield. You drew hearts into the condensation until your sleeve smudged them away. We had almost no money, just enough for gas and a paper bag of groceries. You said we didn’t need more.
Night came down as we drove into the redwood forest. Headlights swung across trunks older than history, thicker than any building. You rolled down the window, reached your hand out as we passed, brushing the bark with your fingertips as though touching eternity. The smell of damp earth and needles filled the car. We pulled into a turnout and killed the engine. The silence was enormous.
Later we reached Big Sur, the cliffs black against the white churn of the ocean. We wrapped ourselves in a blanket, pressed close as the wind tore at us. Coffee too strong, bread gone stale, but it didn’t matter. The world felt endless and we untouchable. You whispered that love was enough. And I believed you.
Now the cold is only cold. I hunch deeper into my jacket, rain dripping from my nose.
Ahead, a figure in a hood, your same jacket, same stride. My chest lifts. It’s you. It has to be. I push forward, breath quick. She turns, and it isn’t. The letdown is a stone inside me. My face burns. How many shadows have I chased? Passersby glance, then look away. They think I belong here too, searching doorways, chasing ghosts. Maybe I do.
I pause under a streetlamp. The rain in its light looks like sparks falling, bright flecks hissing down as though the whole city were burning itself out in silence. I blink hard. Just rain again.
Blue lights tear past, sudden and violent. Police cars shriek, tires hissing, mount the sidewalk, doors slamming open, officers spilling out with guns drawn. Strobes flash against puddles, storefront glass. They rush a building, batter down the door. Shouts echo, boots thunder. I press back against a wall, heart thudding. What if it’s you? Then I know it can’t be. The thought shames me. The raid vanishes as quickly as it arrived, leaving the street slick and empty again.
By a diner, the gutter is littered with matchbooks gone limp in the rain. You used to collect them, strike one before tossing it. You said you liked watching something come to life, even if it dies right after. I used to think it silly. Now it feels like scripture. I picture you leaning on the counter of a roadside diner, flame flickering in your eyes, laughter catching in your throat. The spark, the bloom, the quick extinguish.
Around the corner, a body thrashes under a tarp, arms jerking, mouth open in a howl. Two others crouch near, murmuring, but no one moves to help. The figure claws at shadows only they can see. For a second, I swear I hear your name in the scream. My chest caves. I take a step, then stop. The sound clings as I walk away.
At the next block, under an awning, a tent sags half-open. Inside, a woman braids a girl’s hair, her hands gentle, steady despite the rain dripping through canvas. The girl leans forward, eyes closed, letting it happen. A moment of tenderness in the wreckage. It almost breaks me.
And then I see you.
Crouched, under an awning, knees drawn up, hair matted against your cheek. A sheet of damp cardboard beneath you, a plastic bag for a pillow. Your hands tremble as you flick a lighter. Spark, die. Spark, die. The sound of metal on metal carries in the rain.
For a moment, I see the girl who lit matchbooks just to watch the flame bloom and vanish. Your eyes narrow the same way, intent, almost tender, as if the fire were alive. I want to kneel beside you, take your hands, fold you into the place you belong. In my arms. Where you’re supposed to be.
But you don’t look up. Or maybe you do and the rain blurs it. The lighter clicks again. Spark, no flame.
I stand there, shame dripping with the rain. There were times I could have stayed. Times I could have listened when you asked for help. The last time I saw you, you told me you’d be fine. I wanted to believe it. I told myself love was enough. I was wrong.
I think of your mother’s living room, photographs on the wall, you rolling your eyes after, making jokes about her curtains. Do they still look for you? Or is it only me?
I think of the night you whispered, “Don’t let me go.” I thought you meant forever. You were already slipping.
In a puddle by the curb, neon shimmers, and for an instant I see you beside me, the younger you, laughing, eyes alive. A bus passes, the glass shakes, and you’re gone.
The lighter clicks again. Spark, no flame.
Rain falls harder, filling my collar, soaking my sleeves. Neon hums above the slick pavement. I stand in the drizzle, arms empty.
In your arms, where I’m supposed to be.