> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.merionwest.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # As the Light Dissolves - URL: https://www.merionwest.com/as-the-light-dissolves/ - Published: 2026-11-01T02:21:42.000Z - Updated: 2026-11-01T03:01:58.000Z - Description: Laura Lambie - Author: Jonathan Church - Tags: Fiction, Arts Since it’s the last day, and I know that soon, everything will fade away, I let my mind wander through the winding tributaries of my memory. I sip my brandy; it warms my throat, it warms me, and it tinges the memories with a diffuse sheen, as though I’m seeing them from across a room lit only by flickering candles. Fragments of the past shifting and shimmering, their edges blurred by the surrounding shadow. Mellow afternoon light fills the apartment; across the way, the stone balcony and wrought-iron railing are bathed in it. I close my eyes; the charming balcony is blotted out; I let go, and the memories crowd around me. I see her again, as she was that day, sitting across from me on the underground. At first, the deep burgundy of her scarf caught my eye. She had long, dark hair; it fell over the scarf—shiny dark strands surrounded by the deep burgundy. She glanced at me; I still can’t put into words exactly what it was, but something in me opened with that glance, something that had remained closed and hardened with all the other women I had known. I open my eyes and glance at the clock on the mantel; dust motes float in a shaft of sunlight as it passes through the thick windowpane and rests on the floor. This summer light is brighter, richer than on that late winter afternoon, when we exited the underground together, and the dull orange rays gilded her hair with cold, fading light. We found a tiny, quiet bar, but it hadn’t mattered where we were. For me, all of London disappeared—the sounds of the ancient city faded into white noise, and the contours of the street outside dissolved. As she spoke about her simple upbringing on the outskirts of Paris, all the other women I had known floated into quiet nonexistence. Only her face, only her eyes as she spoke, were real. I see her now, as she was, when I would come home from work, and she would be sitting near the window, head bent over the desk, hair fanning out around her, and I knew she was all there was for me. Now I look around the apartment, at the intricate moldings—delicate rose petals surrounded by swirling leaves—and at the rich, dark, shiny wood floors, and I remember when we entered it together, when I watched her walk through the bright, spacious rooms, open the shutters, and look out onto the Champs-Élysées. It was a gorgeous apartment, but to me it was only worth having because she was there. That was what I had felt. The night after we moved in, I went for drinks with colleagues, leaving her happily unpacking boxes. We met at a bar in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, all dark wood and shaded lamps, and Geoffrey told us about his new secretary, who, by everyone’s estimation, was a great beauty. “We went for an early dinner, and then had some”—he paused—“after-dinner entertainment.” The guys slapped him on the back. “You’re so lucky,” said Ralph. “You’re the man!” said Phil. “And I was back home by six for family dinner,” Geoffrey concluded. I had sipped my gin and tonic and smiled. It was an unspoken rule that the men in our circle had a different idea of what constituted fidelity. As long as they came home again, they considered themselves loyal married men, and their wives looked the other way. After all, the perks were significant: our wives lived privileged, luxurious lives, and they knew all of that came with some compromises. For myself, I had lost all interest in other women. I couldn’t believe it had happened. My longest relationship had been with Tracy, and of course, in the end, we drifted apart. She had hinted at marriage, but I never felt the need to pull the trigger. And I had to admit that as Tracy got older, my feelings for her drained away, until the relationship faded into nothing. When I got home that night, Claire was already asleep. I undressed and slipped into bed beside her. As I turned over and put my arm around her, my evening disappeared; only she and I existed. I closed my eyes and drifted away on a stream of peace. Remembering that moment is sweet to me again, after all this time. But I can’t hold onto it for long. If I don’t release it, the pain rises, threatening to kill it, like frost creeping over a flower. I let the memory go… it fades away. I finish my brandy, lift the decanter, and pour more. Once again, what I did arises before me—it’s an immovable mass, crushing me, and there’s no way out from under it, no escape. I shift in my chair and take a long sip. I remind myself that none of it matters anymore. The sunlight is fading; shadows are beginning to gather in the corners of the room. I sit back, sink into the soft cushions, and let my gaze settle onto the sky outside the window. Now it’s streaked with somber, fading pink. Soon, night will envelop me. I drink more brandy as my heartbeat slows, and that peaceful feeling that has accompanied me for the past few weeks returns. I recall what happened one last time, before it disappears, devoid of meaning, like a gust of wind dissipating into a cold night. Claire had worn the dangling diamond earrings I’d given her; they sparkled when she looked down at the menu, when she reached for her glass of wine. She wasn’t smiling that night. I noticed it as soon as we sat down. Her brow was knit, her lips compressed, and her eyes looked cold. She ordered, and when the waiter stepped away, she turned toward the window. A strange dread, such as I hadn’t experienced since I was a child, when I was left alone to fall asleep without a nightlight—that helpless dread as I stared out into the darkness of my bedroom—came over me again when she averted her eyes—that icy, unbearable dread. I reached across the table. “Darling, how are you?” She looked at me; her eyes were dead. She lowered her gaze and stared into her wineglass. “What is it?” I asked. “Rhonda stopped by today.” “Rhonda Sterling?” She nodded. “She and I had a long talk.” “Oh?” “You know what a good friend Rhonda is, right?” “Is she?” “Yes. She’s very loyal.” “Ah.” “Do you have any idea what we talked about?” Of course I knew, but I smiled and sipped my drink. “Her latest shopping spree? Her new hairstyle? The charity party she’s planning?” Claire held up her hand. “I know you don’t like her. But you don’t know her very well. You see the surface, but underneath she’s a loyal friend. She’s loyal.” “Ah, I see.” She stared at me. “Loyalty, James. Loyalty.” “Yes, of course.” I sipped my drink. “Did I tell you the deal went through? The one I’ve been working on for—” “So you’re not going to ask what Rhonda and I talked about.” She nodded. “Typical. I should have known.” The waiter brought our food; I dug into my salmon. “Mmm, the chef here never disappoints,” I said. “The fact that you’re avoiding it must mean it’s true.” I sighed, set down my fork, and dabbed my mouth. “All right then, tell me what that busybody cow told you. I simply can’t wait to hear.” Claire directed a look at me I had never seen before, that I never knew existed. The dread came to fruition; my chest began to burn; I glanced down at my suit—for a second I thought I’d leaned into the candle, but no, it was flickering calmly, and my navy-blue suit remained pristine. She lifted her wineglass with a shaky hand, took a long sip, and set it down. With tears quivering at the edges of her eyes, she took a deep breath and said, “She told me you had an affair with one of the secretaries. You know, the ones you hire for their looks, who can’t do the job, so you hire a competent, plain schoolmarm for a month or two to pick up the slack, then go back to collecting your little harem.” “Dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where did she hear such ridiculous gossip?” “Oh, it’s not gossip. I have proof.” She shot me a defiant look. I had never seen that look before—of course, she was getting that attitude from the old cow. She took her phone from her purse; her hand shook as she scrolled, then held it out to me. There I was, kissing Margot outside the Grand Hotel. “Oh, darling, that’s nothing. Just a moment’s indiscretion.” But even as I said it, a hole opened up inside me, and into it poured all the dread; my soul was a black hole—a mystery sucking everything in and destroying it. Why had I done it? Why? Claire was my life—not in some sentimental way, but actually my very life, the only thing I revered and loved. Her face was my compass; it showed me the world. Why had I done it? I tipped my glass back and finished my gin and tonic. “An indiscretion? Is that what you call it?” She stared at me. “Did you really think I could live like this? Did you?” I should have known, and of course somewhere inside me I had—Claire was not one of those wives who would look the other way. Deep down, I had known that all along. And yet, I had still done it. “Claire, please try to understand. It will never happen again.” “Try to understand what?” She leaned toward the candle; for a moment, her dark hair looked like a flaming red halo. She leaned back, and it snapped back to dark. I blinked. There was Claire, looking at me, but her eyes were strange, like hardened glass. “Try to understand why my husband doesn’t love me?” “Try to understand that these things happen sometimes, and you just have to let it go.” I did my best to keep my voice steady and casual. “And of course I love you. Don’t be absurd.” “Ah, yes—they just happen. I see. And it just happens that when I ask you about it, you lie to me. And somehow I’m supposed to know you love me while you seduce your secretary behind my back!” “Claire, please. Be reasonable.” “I am. Very.” Her face went blank. The anger was gone; a vacuum of nothingness replaced it. She suddenly looked like a woman I’d never known. She stood and pulled on her coat. In one seamless motion, she tied the sash, lifted her wineglass, and threw its contents in my face. That night, as I stood by the window looking down at the street, the headlights flashing by—pinpricks of light rising then fading into the darkness—I convinced myself we would work through it and get back to where we had been before. Even as midnight passed and she still wasn’t home, I told myself she would come back, she would look at me again, and the emptiness in her eyes would be gone. I would see her the way she looked that first night—eyes full of hope, and how she looked at me sometimes, and I could see that she loved me. There was no way that could be gone forever. But why had I done it? For the first time in my life, a wave of self-hatred washed over me. My hands shook, my shoulders slumped, and I turned away from the window and sank into the armchair. I stared into the fire. My own mother had looked the other way for her entire marriage. My father would stumble home late at night, drunk; she knew perfectly well where he had been, and still, the next morning, she was cheerful at the breakfast table, pouring the coffee, chatting about her garden. What my father did was simply something that was done, like vacationing in the Swiss Alps or redecorating every five years. It was nothing to go to pieces about. I had told Claire it wouldn’t happen again. Now that I knew how much it bothered her, I would do my best never to let it happen again. Why did she have to make it such a big deal? No, she would be sensible; she would get past it; she would come back. I woke in the early dawn, my head thick and heavy, my neck stiff. I didn’t know when I’d fallen asleep, but from the headache, I suspected I hadn’t slept for long. I stood, passed through the hall, and opened the bedroom door. I expected to see the contours of her body beneath the white quilt. But nothing. She had never come home. I stood for a long time, staring at the empty bed. Then I crossed the room and entered the bathroom. The pristine white marble walls and floor shone, but there was no damp towel on the hook, no moist air tinged with the scent of her shampoo. I walked over to her vanity table. I touched her hairbrush, her makeup case; a faint trace of her perfume permeated the air. I took in a deep breath. She would be back; I would see her again, brushing her hair, pulling it up into one of her neat, precise buns, putting the final touches on her makeup, fastening a necklace. The night I gave her the diamond earrings, I watched them glitter as she lifted them to her ears; the sparkling jewels danced beside her face—it had been an exquisite sight. I turned, slowly closed the bathroom door, and passed through the bedroom and down the hall into the kitchen. I switched on the coffee machine and poured in the beans. The grinder hummed; I added the water, and as the aroma of coffee filled the air, a key turned in the lock. I waited to hear Claire’s steps as she came down the hallway. She would pull off her scarf and drape it over the back of the chair, and she would kiss me. Silence, a coat rustling, then soft steps—I turned. "Good morning, Mr. Roberts.” “Good morning, Alma.” I turned back to the coffee and watched it drip into the pot. Alma opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plate; she began chopping. The chopping, the coffee machine gurgling as it finished brewing—it all sounded tinny and vaguely ugly. I filled my mug and went back into the bedroom. I sat on the bed and sipped. I sat for a long time, until I remembered where Claire probably was. She would be at that loudmouth, interfering, Rhonda Sterling’s apartment. Rhonda had liked Claire right away and had taken her under her wing, so to speak. At the firm’s Christmas party, she had hovered around Claire like a Chanel-clad vulture. Now she had interfered in my marriage. What did she think she was doing, showing that picture to Claire? What was she hoping to gain? Well, I would have to compose myself and give her a call. I had to extricate Claire from her clutches. Get her back to me, back where she belonged. I pulled my cell from my pocket and dialed. “James. Hello.” “Hello, Rhonda. How are you?” She cleared her throat. “Well. And you?” “Fine. Listen, I’d like to talk to my wife. Put her on the phone, please.” “Claire isn’t here.” Of course she was lying; she had her talons sunk deeply into Claire, and she wouldn’t let go easily. “Rhonda, please—I need to speak with her.” “I’m telling you, James, she isn’t here.” I struggled to keep my voice calm and even. “Rhonda, I need to talk to my wife.” “What happened? Why are you looking for her?” I cleared my throat. “Well. You would know what happened, wouldn’t you?” “Would I?” “Yes, of course.” Rhonda paused. “If you mean am I a loyal friend, the answer is yes.” “You call what you did loyal? Interfering with her marriage?” She sighed. “The classic rationalization.” I gripped the phone; the old cow was digging her heels in. “Oh, really? You’ve stood by Harry for all these years—do you really believe he’s been a choirboy?” “Don’t start with your justifications. I know them only too well.” “You had no right to interfere.” “And yet you had the right to take the secretary to the hotel and cheat on your wife, who, I would like you to know, loves you dearly. She actually loves you, not like some of the other wives. She deserves to know the truth.” “Where is my wife?” “I don’t know, James. Goodbye.” I would have to go over there. I didn’t believe for a second that Claire wasn’t there. I showered and dressed, and as I took my keys from the bowl near the door, Alma came up behind me. “Sir, where is Mrs. Roberts? She wanted me to help her with the invitations for the gala. She said we had to get them out this morning.” “Oh, she had to go out; she’ll be back soon. Just work on something else, and when she gets back, you can do it.” A flicker of concern passed through her eyes. Had she overheard my phone call? “Yes, Mr. Roberts, thank you.” I let out a sharp breath. “You’re welcome.” I was pulling on my coat when the doorbell rang. A delivery for the gala—they had been coming like clockwork for two weeks. Yet another interruption. I opened the door. “Monsieur Roberts?” Two police officers stood there. I felt a wave of nausea, but it passed quickly. “Yes. What can I do for you?” “We need to speak with you.” “With me? About what?” “Sir, we have some bad news.” What could have happened? Some problem in the building? I sighed. “All right, please, come in. But I don’t have much time. Come this way.” I led them into the living room. “Sit, please.” I waved toward the couch. “No thanks, we’ll stand.” “Suit yourselves.” I glanced at the fireplace; there were still some faintly glowing embers under the grate from the fire the night before. I stared at them, then turned to the officers. “So, what can I do for you?” They exchanged a look, then the one on the right said, “I’m sorry, sir. We have some bad news.” “Oh?” My attention narrowed to a pinprick directed at the speaking officer’s eyes. I stared until they blurred into strange, shapeless brown blots. “We’re very sorry. Your wife, Claire Roberts, died last night.” I laughed. “You’re mistaken, of course. My wife is fine. I had dinner with her last night; she’s at a friend’s apartment.” I laughed again. “Really, you need to do a better job of locating the right person.” The officers exchanged another look, probably out of embarrassment at their shoddy police work. One of them pulled a card from his front pocket and handed it to me. “This is your wife, no?” I found myself looking at Claire’s license. “Yes, of course—but where did you get this?” “From your wife’s purse.” “I don’t understand.” “Sir, please listen very carefully to what I’m saying. Your wife, Claire Roberts, died last night.” I stared at him. His incompetence was astounding. “Well, I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here. There’s a misunderstanding here. In fact, I was just about to head out to her friend’s apartment; I’m sure she’s there.” “Sir, we need you to come with us to identify the body.” “I will do no such thing. Do you think I need to waste my day going to the morgue because you people can’t be bothered to do real police work? I don’t have time to nurse you in your incompetence. Now get out of my house.” “Sir, calm down. You need to come with us.” “I said get out!” I was startled by the loud sound, then I realized I had yelled those words. Alma rushed in from the kitchen. “Calm down and come with us. Your wife—” “My wife nothing. She’s at her friend’s apartment. This is why law enforcement needs to be better educated. You have uneducated people dealing with serious matters, and this is the result.” The sight of the officer was loathsome; if I had to look at him for one more moment, I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Suddenly—I don’t remember how it happened—suddenly my face was inches away from his. Up close, his mustache looked like little black slivers peppered across his upper lip. And it was the fury in me speaking, not me, when I leaned in and said, “Get out of my house right now before I do something to you that you’ll regret.” I grabbed his arm in an effort to pull him toward the door, but as soon as I touched him, the other officer was behind me, and before I knew it, he had pulled my hands behind my back. “Don’t resist,” he said. But at that point, I couldn’t hear anything. All I knew was they were lying to me, and now they were manhandling me. I tried to pull away harder; I pitched backward and knocked a vase off the end table. It shattered. “Stop!” cried Alma. “Leave him alone!” “Stop resisting!” The officers pinned me to the ground and forced my hands into handcuffs. As they led me out of the apartment, Alma followed, crying and pleading. “You can’t do this to him, please.” “Ma’am, please step back.” My body was on fire with rage, but the officers had overpowered me. They led me out, the handcuffs chafing my wrists, fire coursing through my veins. It was unjust—these incompetent fools with their hands on me, forcing me into a police car. They slammed the door. As I sat staring at the glass separating me from the front seat, listening to them speaking over their radios, for some reason, my rage began to ebb away, until I was left feeling numb and exhausted. I put up no resistance when we reached the station. I spent the night in a drab grey cell, the grey walls pushing in on me, until I became a grey blank also, staring at them, my mind emptied of thought. The next morning, Geoffrey bailed me out. He dropped me off at home; I entered the empty apartment. Alma had cleaned up the broken vase; there was no sign of the struggle, only silence and the faint odor of lemon polish. I headed into the bedroom, and as I peeled off my dirty clothes, showered, and dressed, it began to dawn on me that something might be wrong. Maybe Claire had left me for good; maybe I really had lost her. It seemed impossible, but that was two nights now that she hadn’t come home. I was going to head to Rhonda’s, but somehow I knew she wasn’t there. But where was she? I stood in the bedroom, trying to think, trying to figure it out. Thoughts rose and dissipated, then faded away. I couldn’t grasp any of them. I stood for a long time. Then I made the decision to finally open that '76 Bordeaux I’d been saving—it finally felt like the right time. I passed through the bedroom into the hallway. Before I reached the kitchen, I stopped, turned the tiny, gilded knob, and opened the narrow door. I descended the stone steps; the air grew cooler. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I flipped the switch; it clicked in the muffled silence, then muted light filled the room. I crossed to the far wall. I ran my finger over the smooth glass of the bottles until I came to it; I pulled it out gently. Beautiful vintage; I couldn’t wait to open it. Once back upstairs, I uncorked the bottle and let it breathe. I stood in the quiet kitchen; it looked very drab that morning. Grey light, reflecting off the wall of clouds filling the sky, touched everything. I carried my glass back into the bedroom. Normally, I drank in the living room, but now, for some reason, I wanted to stay in the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and sank into the comforter, over the sheets Alma had pulled tight. The Bordeaux was excellent; it filled me with an exquisite warmth. My inhibitions began to fall away, but clarity didn’t come. Instead, my mind snapped back to that moment with Margot, when I had made the choice to pursue her. I took a long sip and began to excavate that moment, to excavate what had happened within me that had led me to choose what I had chosen. I sat at my desk, Margot next to me. I watched her lean over as she rifled through a folder, the window behind her filled with the faint light of the waning dusk. Had I found her beautiful? In a way, yes; I felt the normal attraction any man might feel for an attractive young woman, but nothing beyond that. I had no feelings for her beyond curiosity. The moment I made the decision rose before me: I sat at my desk, watching her; I knew Geoffrey had his eye on her, and Phil too. Did I think of Claire? No. It was as if a new compartment had opened, where Claire didn’t exist, where it was only me—a man, the master of my own life, unencumbered by anything outside myself. I could make any decision I wanted; whether I did it or not depended only on myself. As Margot bent over the desk, her long, straight blonde hair streaming down, something shifted in me; I made my decision—and then, starting in the middle of my chest and spreading through me, came a distinctive, sharp exultation. I sat back in my leather chair and let out a deep breath as the tension drained from my neck and shoulders. I looked at Margot, and suddenly I was inflamed with desire for her. The moment burned itself into me; I couldn’t bear it. I drank more, and the memory began to recede, to lose structure, to dissipate. Out of its receding haze, a sound arose. I tried to focus on it. What was it? A tinkle in the air—it came, it went. It came, it went. It came again, and then I realized it was the doorbell. My chest tightened; I didn’t want to see anyone. I sat, unmoving. A long silence echoed, then a key in the lock, the knob turning, footsteps coming down the hall. A mass stood in the doorway—a dark outline, someone tall, wearing a long coat. It moved toward me. “James, are you OK?” I looked up at the mass; its face swam before me until, somehow, the pieces came together and I recognized Geoffrey. He sat down on the bed and took the wineglass from my hand. “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “Why?” He stared at me. “All right, so Claire isn’t here. I don’t know where she is. But why should you be worried about that?” He put his hands on my shoulders. “James. Claire is dead.” “Oh no, it’s incompetent police work. They got it wrong, they came to the wrong—” “James. I identified the body. It was her. She’s dead.” He paused, looked down, then back up at me again. “She was drinking at a bar near the Faubourg-Saint-Antoine; she drank too much, and the bartender said he wouldn’t serve her anymore, and she left, and as she crossed the street…she was hit by a car. She was killed instantly.” His voice lowered. “At least she didn’t suffer.” I looked at him. Was that Geoffrey? I touched his arm, smelled his leathery cologne, and saw that his hair was parted differently than usual and that one of the strands was out of place. I stared at the strand, trying to make sense of it—the blond looked dark in the dim bedroom—and then, in a sudden, sickening lurch, I understood that my wife was dead. I heard a voice rise up—a long, slow, visceral wail; it filled the room, echoed off the walls, faded away, then rose again. After a long time, I realized the sound was coming from me. Geoffrey put his hand on my shoulder; he kept it there until the wailing finally subsided. As silence filled the room, a clear mirror was held up to my soul, to the totality of my inner being, and what I saw was vile and monstrous—a man who had betrayed his wife to prove to himself that he was his own master, to prove that he alone created the meaning in his life. And now she was dead, because of me—the only woman I had ever loved was gone. But Geoffrey’s face broke apart again, and I began floating. Claire was with me; she sat across from me, laughing, talking. There was that light in her eyes, and I knew I would always treasure it. I would do anything to protect it; I would give my life for it. We were so happy; my life had truly been made when I met her…. A terrible, throbbing ache in my head. I felt the bed next to me. Had Claire gotten up early? Was she in the bathroom—and then it came back, and I closed my eyes and drifted away. I finish my brandy, lift the decanter, and refill it all the way to the top. The clock on the mantel ticks into the empty apartment; the passing moments will soon lead these memories into nothingness. Long ago, I realized that the trite saying—time heals all wounds—isn’t true. Each day that passed only made Claire’s absence more painful. As I sat in the apartment night after night, drinking wine in front of the fire, watching it cast its flickering glow, the suffering would rise up again and again, a constriction that felt like a fiery hand clenching my chest—burning me from the inside out. And now, with a steady hand, I swirl my final glass of brandy. Soon, there will no longer be Claire and what happened to her. I revisited it one more time; I wanted to remember her one last time—Claire, who had given my life a feeling of meaning. Claire. The clock strikes seven; it’s time. I take one last glance around the apartment, open the vial on the table next to me, and empty the contents into my brandy. My brandy will now give me the final relief—it will dissolve everything into nothingness. I say goodbye to Claire; I see her again, walking through the apartment. She turns to me and smiles, the sunlight beaming through the window behind her. I say goodbye to her now, once and for all, as the room begins to look strange—garish light emanates from the walls; I can see the atoms it's made of swirling around, creating the strange, bright walls. Now they fall away, and I’m with Claire again, when we went on that picnic, the leaves above us flitting back and forth, the sunlight reconfiguring itself again and again over her face. As the atoms begin to hum and whir, and the trees fade away, her face is all I want to hold onto, even now—but it breaks apart and begins to fade away. I watch the eyes and lips dissolve, and as they disappear—the last glimpse I will ever have of Claire—I see for the first time that our love pointed to something else, something I had never let myself see. I finally understand—but now it’s too late… The brightness intensifies, and I hear a faint, faraway sound, like a bell tolling in the distance, rising up from beyond the glare. It rises up again, then recedes. My hands begin to drain away, my arms buzz, the atoms are swirling—and as my arms begin to dissipate, something closes around them—a hand, warm, insistent. My body begins to disappear, and a fragment floats up…I hear my name rise, it weaves in and out of the dissipating brightness… My mind is fading, fading away, and now… ### Laura Lambie’s fiction has appeared in *New English Review*, *The Writing Disorder*, and *The Galway Review*. Her work was shortlisted for the 2023 J.F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction.