Interlude - 9. Chapter 9

I stepped off the elevator into the lobby. The bright lights assaulted my senses. My head ached. No amount of ibuprofen seemed to help. But I was almost becoming used to it these days. And I had better drugs if I wanted to use them.

I looked around. It had been a long time since I had been here. My job didn’t take me out of town much anymore. Which was good, in a way. Sarah and Jess were at that age when a father really needed to be around. And Joanne seemed to want me around more and more these days. That was ok, I guessed. We had been drifting apart for years. Had even separated for a time. But things were back to some semblance of a status quo between us. Amazing how the oddest things seemed to change the direction of people’s lives. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not.

How many years had it been? Twelve? Thirteen? Not since I had been to this hotel, though. I had been here three years ago, or was it four? I didn’t fucking know. My memory was shit these days. Man! Memory loss and headaches that made me want to tear my eyes from my head sometimes. My life was good, no question about it.

I sighed, suddenly filled with a sense of nostalgia and longing—and uncertainty. What was I being nostalgic over? A memory? A dream? A fantasy? An hallucination? It had seemed so real at the time. But that was hallucinations for you. They could be so real, could convince every corner of your mind that they were real—so real that you could smell, feel, taste them. They could be more real than reality sometimes. And maybe I should get out my thesaurus and look up another word for “real”! I laughed at myself. I was an anal retentive writer right to the core. I even critiqued my own thoughts for style.

But the reality (ok, a variation on the word at least!) was that it could just as easily have been an hallucination as a memory. But right now it seemed a memory and one so incredibly strong that I could smell his hair, could taste his skin. But, then, I’d had dreams like that before, too. Dreams where I was making love to someone—no, not just making love to someone, but LOVING someone—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually. And I could see those eyes--those wonderful eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. And I wanted never to look away from those eyes, wanted never to wake up. But I always did. And I would often wake up with tears soaking my pillow, sobs racking my body. And I would lie there, afraid to open my eyes, afraid I wouldn’t remember, afraid I would never see those eyes again.

I gave myself a mental shake. It was so easy to get lost even in the memory of those dreams. As easy as it was to get lost in the memory of him. I closed my eyes for a moment, shutting out the bright lights of the lobby, at the same time trying to shut in the images of him that were flashing through my head. I leaned against the wall between the elevators. The images were flashing—literally flashing, like an old reel-to-reel movie that had been broken and pieced back together, and I felt a vague sense of unreality, of detachment.

I sighed. Maybe it had been a hallucination after all. My head swam a little and I wished I had taken the “better drugs” that I had—and I cursed the thing in my head that was taking my certainty from me, that was making me doubt my own reality.

“Are you all right?” The voice was followed by a light touch on my arm. I nearly jumped from the electricity of it—but at the same time, my entire body froze. My breath caught in my throat and my heart nearly stopped. I wanted to open my eyes, to see who was behind that voice that was so achingly familiar to my ears, to see who was attached to that touch that was setting my nerve endings on fire. But I was afraid. No, “afraid” was the wrong word. I was terrified. I was terrified that when I opened my eyes I would find myself awakening from a dream—and he would be gone. And I was terrified that when I opened my eyes I would find I was imagining the familiarity, losing myself in a fantasy that would end in that moment—and that voice and that touch would belong to a stranger.

I felt that light touch turn to a gentle caress, felt his hand slowly run over my forearm, his thumb and fingers caressing my skin gently. I sighed and felt myself drifting into that caress. And against all instinct, against any vestigial feeling of better judgement that I had, I opened my eyes.

I looked up and found myself looking into his eyes. They were definitely green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a cliched green. They were a dark green almost going to blue, but not quite. I caught my breath. I knew those eyes. Knew them as if they were my own. I had seen them so many times, gazed into them so many times, fallen into them so many times…

He smiled, a crooked little smile. “Isn’t this where I came in?”

“Andrew…” I whispered his name, my breath barely forming sound.

His smile deepened into that boyish grin I remembered so well. “David.” He said the name softly and my stomach fluttered at the sound of my name on his lips.

He ran his fingers lightly across my left brow, down over my left temple. He remembered, remembered the exact place. “Still get the same headaches?”

His fingers were gentle, soothing as they stroked my head. I closed my eyes briefly, and I could feel a smile forming on my lips, a contented smile, a smile filled with peace. I opened my eyes again.

I reached out and touched his hair. It was still like gold, but a darker gold, like a gold coin that had been handled by many fingers, that had picked up the stains of time. I felt a stab of jealousy. How many fingers had felt those cool, silk-like strands slide through them.

My eyes instinctively went to his left hand. There was no ring, but what did that really mean these days? I hadn’t worn mine in years. I had never put it back on after Joanne and I had separated for a time.

Then I realized what I was doing. I hadn’t seen him in twelve (or was it thirteen?) years. We had made love one time. That hardly entitled me to feel even the slightest whisper of jealousy. Besides, I was the one who had told him I was married, that I was happy enough. I shook my head, and was rewarded by a blinding flash of light and a sharp stab of pain behind my eyes.

His hands were on my shoulders instantly, steadying me. “I’m assuming the shake of the head was NOT in answer to my question then.” His voice was soft in my ear, and I realized he was standing very close to me, his chest pressing against mine, his hands pulling me closer still.

I caught my breath and I felt like my heart was going to explode right from my chest, it was beating so hard and so fast. I wanted nothing more than to put my arms around him and just get lost in him. But instead I pressed my hands against the wall behind me. I needed to feel something that was incontrovertibly real.

“Let me take you back to your room.” I could hear the concern in his voice.

“No, I’m ok.” I could hear the haste in my voice, it was almost panic. But that wasn’t what I meant, wasn’t what I felt…was it?

He let go of me, pulled away and I felt cold. I didn’t like the sudden feeling of separation from him. It felt as wrong as his closeness had felt right. I could feel myself frown. I opened my eyes, half expecting to be assailed by another blinding stab of pain. But I felt only a slight swimming of my senses—and that could have been as much from his proximity as from the thing in my head.

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine as if they were searching my soul, reaching inside me, looking for something beyond the surface. “Are you sure?”

Sure about what? That I didn’t want him to take me back to my room? Or that I was ok? But either question had the same answer.

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

But still he searched my eyes, as if he sought to find the true answer in my eyes, as if my words were not enough. I met his gaze squarely. It took every ounce of a strength I really didn’t have to not look away. I knew he could read my soul, he always knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling. But I didn’t want him to know, not now. But I could no more look away this time than any time before.

Damn fucking fate! Why was he here? Why was I here? Why were we both here together, again? What were the fates hoping would be gained by having us meet only to part again? Because we would part, that was certain. Even if I didn’t have my wife and my daughters, I would walk out the door without him at the end of the day. I had to. There was just no way I could put him through this. I knew what it was like to watch my lover die, to hold him in my arms as life slipped slowly away from him, to watch the light leave those eyes… I brought myself up short. What the hell was that?

He smiled, and it was a slightly sad smile, but one of complete comprehension. Had I expected less? He had always seemed to be able to look into my eyes and understand everything behind them. “Then let’s have breakfast.”

**

The breakfast was a buffet and we were standing next to each other in line. He was helping himself to several pieces of the fresh fruit and half of a plain bagel. I smiled. Healthy eating habits. I stole a glance at him. They showed. He looked fit and not much older than the last time I saw him. I reached for several pieces of bacon, a few spoonfuls of scrambled eggs and some toast. Healthy eating habits… I had them, had them for years. Had paid careful attention to everything that passed through my lips, had worked out daily, had really made an effort to keep time—and genetics at bay. But it didn’t really matter now. I grabbed a couple strawberries, my concession to healthy eating.

As we sat down I caught him looking at my plate, a small smile playing about his lips. I laughed suddenly. He could read my mind, but I could also read his. “Shut up and eat your fruit!” I laughed and made a point of taking a big bite of bacon.

He laughed and the sound went straight through my body. It was a deep, hearty laugh filled with the joy of life. I winced inwardly as I thought of that life that would go on.

His eyes flickered and I wondered if I had let that show. But he just smiled. “I’ve read your books, you know.”

I paused in mid bite, my face breaking into a grin that must have made me look a bit like the Village Idiot. “You have?” The Village Idiot responded stupidly.

He smiled and reached over and stole a piece of bacon from my plate. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” He tapped me on the nose with the bacon before devouring it with one bite.

What had I thought? I suppose he would have. I would have. If he had been a writer, I would have searched every corner of the earth for every word he had ever written, right down to his grocery lists. But somehow I hadn’t expected that. And I had never told him my last name…

He reached out and I thought he was going for another piece of my bacon, but instead he traced the line of my cheek with one finger. “I’d be a poor detective if I couldn’t find the last name of the other half of my soul.” His voice was soft, deeper than it had been—but twelve (or was it thirteen?) years would do that. He had been what, maybe eighteen or nineteen then? If that. But it wasn’t his voice that brought the tears stinging to the back of my eyes, and it wasn’t that he had read the very thoughts in my head. It was his words: “…the other half of my soul.”

I blinked them back hurriedly and dropped my fork—a good quick excuse to look away. As I reached down to retrieve it, I felt his hand on my arm.

“Leave it, David. Someone will get it.”

Did he know that bending over sent the blood rushing to my head, set off the blinding flashes behind my eyes? What had he seen when he looked into my eyes? He knew my thoughts, he knew my last name… he was a detective. What else had he detected?

But I left it and slowly sat back up straight. I hadn’t even leaned down that far, but my head swam. But again, that could have been as much from the touch of his hand on my arm as from the thing in my head.

I closed my eyes. I felt him run his hand slowly over my forearm, his thumb and fingers caressing my skin gently. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It came out as a deep sigh. His touch was always such a paradox. It set every nerve ending in my body on fire, made my senses swim—but at the same time it filled me with a deep sense of peace.

After a moment, I opened my eyes and saw him watching me, smiling, one dark brow raised slightly, as if in question. They were still much darker than his hair, his brows. Still a bit incongruous. I reached out impulsively and ran my fingers over each one. My eyes met his. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. He never looked away as he gestured for the waiter to bring the check. I brushed my thumb over his lips. They were still so soft, like the petal of a rose. He took my thumb between those incredibly soft lips and I felt his tongue brush against my skin. He never let go of my thumb as he glanced down briefly to sign the check.

He took my hand in his and kissed each finger before pressing his lips against my palm. It was a very tender, very sensual gesture and it sent a slow ripple of warmth through my body. “I’ve missed you, David.” His breathed the words against my skin and the ripple of warmth became a wave of heat.

He stood up, still holding my hand. His eyes found mine again. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a cliched green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. And they never left mine as I stood up. They never left mine as he led me to the elevator. They never left mine as he led me to his room.

**

He smiled at me as he shut the door. It was a slow smile, a smile that acknowledged memories. He traced the line of my cheek with one finger as he brushed his other hand through my hair. “You look just as I see you every night in my dreams.”

I laughed and moved away a little. It was a self-conscious laugh. I knew I had changed in the twelve (or was it thirteen?) years since we had last seen each other. I had been twenty-seven then. I had just turned forty. With the best genetics in the world—which I did NOT have—forty wasn’t twenty-seven. I didn’t look…old, precisely. My hair had a few grays in it, but not enough to notice unless the light caught them just right. And I had shaved off the mustache I had worn for years—because unlike my hair, IT had enough gray to notice.

But when I looked in the mirror I saw forty, not twenty-seven. I saw the lines around my eyes—laughingly called laugh lines by some demented bastard. They were nothing to laugh about. And I saw the change in tone in my skin—it was somehow more pale but at the same time a little darker. But in any case, it didn’t shine with the pink of health as it had at twenty-seven. And when I smiled, there were creases that appeared around my mouth that had never been there at twenty-seven. Oh, I wasn’t so vain that I stared in the mirror all day and bemoaned the passage of time—but I had to acknowledge it. I was still considered attractive by some—by a lot of my female readers, actually, but time had left its fingerprints on my face—and the rest of my body. And I would be a fool to think otherwise.

He, on the other hand, could have spent at least the last ten years in a time warp. Except for the burnishing of his gold hair, he really hadn’t changed much.

He was watching me and I noticed that smile had changed into that boyish grin that had gone straight through me the first time I saw it. I realized why. I had been staring at him. I had let my eyes travel over every inch of him, a slow, lingering journey. I felt myself blush. GOD! I was fairly certain I hadn’t blushed in YEARS! Probably not since I had been the same age as he had been back then.

He laughed. But it wasn’t that hearty laugh, that laugh filled with the joy of life. Instead, it was a chuckle, soft and deep in his voice. It made me think of soft laughter against a pillow—and it made all my nerve endings prickle.

He closed the distance between us, that distance I had put there with my self-conscious sense of time. His smile faded a little and he raised one hand and ran his fingers over my forehead, just above my left eyebrow, and down to my temple. His fingers lingered there, gently massaging my skin and I felt the pain in my head lessen. It didn’t go away. Even the “good drugs” didn’t take it completely away—not unless I took enough of them to make myself unconscious. But his touch was soothing. It quieted the pain in my head. He pressed the palm of his other hand against my cheek and brushed his thumb lightly over my lips.

My eyes met his. I could feel my heart beating, could feel the blood rushing through my veins, could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. I felt light-headed, almost dizzy, but I didn’t look away from his eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a cliched green. They were a dark green almost going to blue, but not quite. I never had been able to look away from those eyes. I had never wanted to. They were my anchor, they held me steady, kept me from falling, kept me from letting go.

I reached up and ran my fingers over his dark brows and around the outside of his eyes. I couldn’t look away. I was mesmerized by those eyes. And I felt the years fall away, one by one. And he was kissing me the first time. It was a long, slow kiss. It felt tentative, his lips barely touching mine, brushing softly over my lips like the gentle caress of a butterfly’s wings. His fingers slipped into my hair, and I could feel him playing with the strands, sliding them slowly through his fingers. I felt a ripple of heat pass through my entire body. But this time it wasn’t an unexpected response. This time it felt familiar, natural, anticipated—as if I had been waiting to feel like this again for a long time, twelve (or was it thirteen?) years.

My lips parted slightly, and he slipped his tongue in between my lips and into my mouth, sliding his tongue sensually along mine. I returned his kiss, my lips brushing his, my tongue rubbing against his. My fingers tangled in his hair and I pulled him closer to me, pressing my body against his. A deep groan rose from his throat and vibrated against my lips. His fingers tightened in my hair and one hand slipped down my back, pulling me hard against him. His tenderness turned to passion as he thrust his tongue hard against mine, and I answered his passion with my own. My hands slipped from his hair and I ran them slowly down over his shoulders, down his arms, down his sides. My hands burned where they touched his skin.

His mouth left mine and found my neck, right where it met my shoulder. I moaned, and my hands slipped down to his hips and held him tightly as I pressed against him. I could feel the hard outline of his erection pressing against mine. My hands gripped him tighter and another moan slipped through my lips and I rubbed myself hungrily against him, feeling the heat of him right through our clothing, wanting to burn in that heat.

His tongue traced little circles on my skin as his lips moved slowly over my neck. Both his hands were on my ass now, rubbing me, creating a heat that was as urgent as it was hot. He ground himself hard against me, and I felt his breath burn my skin as he groaned my name “David…” He looked into my eyes and I saw the hunger in them. There were no questions in his eyes, no tentative searching. I could feel his breath quicken, could almost feel his pulse racing to catch up with mine.

There would be none of the slow sense of discovery that had been there the first time. That had long since left us both. The years of half-remembered dreams, of clinging to a brief taste of eternity had replaced it with a want and a need that was hot and urgent.

I felt locked in his gaze, I couldn’t look away from those eyes. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a cliched green. They were a dark green almost going to blue, but not quite. And as I looked into them, time itself slipped away. I no longer felt like David. He no longer felt like Andrew. We weren’t two people with names and faces, we were two souls hungering to be one.

And the hunger consumed us both. He turned me around and pushed me roughly down onto the bed. There was no gentleness in his touch as he reached beneath me to undo my pants, his hands brushing against my swollen cock as he practically tore them from me. There was no gentleness in his hands as he pushed my thighs apart and knelt between them. I heard the zipper of his pants and a shiver ran through me as I realized his desire for me was so hot he hadn’t even taken the time to undress. I arched my back instinctively, raising my ass to him. “Andrew…” My soft, plaintive whisper told him I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

He positioned himself to enter me and I felt him hesitate. He ran his hands over my back, and I felt the same tenderness in his touch I had felt the first time. And I knew what he was thinking. He had been the first man I had ever been with. I was married then, still was. He had no reason to think I had ever been with another man. Had no reason to think I had ever had a man inside me. And I hadn’t. But that didn’t matter. I wanted him, wanted him to know I belonged to him, wanted him to know I had always belonged to him and him alone—heart, soul and body.

I reached behind me and ran my hand over his ass, slowly, my fingers kneading into the firm flesh. “Andrew, please…” I whispered softly, pulling him towards me.

He groaned, a groan that was deep in his throat, more like a growl than a groan, and pushed himself inside me. I tensed as he slowly filled me with his hardness and he groaned again. I could feel him holding back, feel him still hesitating. But I didn’t want that. I almost whimpered as he slowly pulled himself almost completely from me.

“Andrew…” I moaned his name, and even I could hear the pleading in my voice.

“Oh, God, David!” His voice was harsh, and I heard the ache in him, the need in him—and I felt it as he plunged himself fully into me, nothing held back this time.

I gasped, my breath forced from my lungs from the sharp rush of pain that assailed my body. His fingers gripped my hips, digging into my flesh as he thrust into me, each thrust deep and hard, each thrust sending a light show of stars behind my eyes. I heard my voice—it had to be my voice, though I had no sense of speaking—calling out his name, begging him to thrust harder, begging him to never stop.

My fingers gripped the bedspread and I could feel my nails tearing into the threads. My body shook, every muscle in my body trembling—as much from pleasure as from pain. The light show intensified and I wondered briefly if I would die from this. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was him, all I cared about was feeling him inside me, connected to me, part of me.

I heard his voice crying out my name, heard the passion in the words of love that fell harshly from his lips as I felt his pace increasing, felt his body tensing, felt him shudder as he came deep inside of me. And I felt the tension leaving my body, and I realized with a slight sense of surprise that I had come as well.

He slowly let his body rest on mine, making sure our bodies touched as completely as possible. And I sensed it was his way of completing the connection between us, his way of acknowledging that we were well and truly one heart, one body, one soul. He kissed the back of my neck lightly, his breath hot and fast against my skin.

Then he raised himself from me and I felt a chill surround my body as a sense of finality ran over like a river of ice. It was done, over and done. He would rise; I would rise. We would fix our clothing. He would smile slightly, a sad smile of understanding. I would kiss him, my lips lingering over his, my fingers tangling in his hair, my breath catching in my throat, and I would walk out the door as silently as I had twelve (or was it thirteen?) years ago.

And I would never see him again. That was certain this time. There would be no hopes, no dreams, no fantasies of one more time…

I pressed my face against the bedspread and felt the tears falling uncontrollably from my eyes. His breathing was still quick, panting, and I felt his hair damp with sweat as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, coaxing my head to rest on his shoulder, his fingers stroking my hair. The tears would not stop, and deep sobs racked my body. I had a vague sense of him removing my shirt and realized he had removed his when I felt our skin touch. I clung tightly to him, wanting to feel his skin against mine, wanting my skin to fuse with his, wanting to become part of him, to be absorbed by him. Had he sensed that? Had he sensed my desperate need to feel him, to connect to him? Or had he felt that need also?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t’ want to ever leave him, didn’t want to ever feel that icy cold of separation again. He was the other half of my soul, he was the beat of my heart, he drove the blood through my veins, the breath through my lungs. And I kept losing him, over and over and over I kept losing him. I didn’t want to ever lose him again.

I didn’t realize I had spoken the words that had raced panic-stricken through my head until he spoke. “You’ll never lose me, babe.” His lips were pressed against my hair, his hands rubbing my back gently. And he repeated the words he had said to me the first time. “We are two halves of one whole. We are destined to be together, David, if not in this life then the next, or the next. But we will always be together. In our dreams our lips brush. In eternity, our souls entwine.”

And I felt the truth in those words, felt it wrap around me and hold me as tightly and as safely as his arms.

**

I leaned back against the pillows, closing my eyes, shutting out the light that sent pain shooting through my head—despite the drugs that were being dripped into my veins. I felt myself starting to drift.

I opened my eyes and saw him watching me, smiling, one dark brow raised slightly, as if in question. They were still much darker than his hair, his brows. Still a bit incongruous. I reached out impulsively and ran my fingers over each one. My eyes met his. They were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a clichéd green. They were a dark green, almost going to blue, but not quite. I brushed my thumb over his lips. They were still so soft, like the petal of a rose. He took my thumb between those incredibly soft lips and I felt his tongue brush against my skin.

He took my hand in his and kissed each finger before pressing his lips against my palm. It was a very tender, very sensual gesture and it sent a slow ripple of warmth through my body. “I’ve missed you, David…”

“David…”

I opened my eyes. It was Joanne. “I brought you the paper. Sarah’s picture is in it. They did a whole page on the top graduating seniors from across the region.”

Her face beamed with pride. Sarah was her favorite, just as Jess was mine. But Sarah was more like me. She had been a writer since before she could write, always weaving worlds around her imaginary friends, telling stories to her dolls. Her graduation had been last Saturday. She had made valedictorian of her class, had graduated with a straight 4.0. I had wanted to be there. But the thing in my head had taken over the rest of my body. I could no longer walk. Apparently it was pressing on a part of my brain that controlled movement. There were days I couldn’t move my arms. There were days I couldn’t move my lips. There were days I couldn’t even open my eyes. But at least I could do that today. And I could move my arms. Everything else felt disconnected from me though.

I took the paper from Joanne and looked at the face of my daughter. The poor girl looked like me too. I smiled. But a much prettier version of me. I traced her picture with my finger. Would she miss me? She would. Probably not as much as Jess, but more than Joanne. I closed the paper, my anal-retentiveness still very much a part of me. I could never leave a newspaper open, could never leave it folded…wrong. I always had to return it to its original state, just as it had been delivered. I laughed inside. If anything, the thing in my head seemed to have intensified that part of me a bit. It took away my various functions randomly, it often took away my memory, but it kept every bit and more of my obsessive-compulsive disorders.

I sighed. I was tired. I just wanted to sleep for a while. I finished folding the paper and went to hand it back to Joanne. But as she started to take it from me, that proud smile still on her lips, my eyes caught a small headline on the front page. “Detective with local roots killed in NYC shootout.” And below it was a picture. I snatched the paper from her hands. My heart raced. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Joanne glancing at the machines that monitored my every bodily function.

Detective Andrew Matthews, 30, was killed in a shootout Monday morning as he attempted to break up a fight involving several patrons of a popular nightclub in Manhattan. Matthews, who was off duty at the time, was born in Kingston, where he is survived by his parents Linda and Richard Matthews of Kingston, and a brother Thomas Matthews, also of Kingston. (more on page B3)

I ran a finger over the picture. I felt tears stinging at the back of my eyes. I didn’t blink them back. There was no reason to. And I couldn’t have if I had wanted to.

“David, what’s wrong?” I heard the concern in her voice. She didn’t love me anymore. She hadn’t loved me for years. But we had enough shared history for her to still feel…concern.

I didn’t look up. I just stared at the picture. It was a small picture. Hardly big enough to show details. And it was black and white. It didn’t show the gold of his hair, the gold that had changed over the years to a darker gold, like a gold coin that had been handled by many fingers, that had picked up the stains of time. It didn’t show that his brows were so much darker than his hair, or how one of those brows always seemed to be raised, as if in question. And it didn’t show the color of his eyes, those eyes that reflected my own soul. It didn’t show that they were green. Not the green of an emerald. Not a cliched green. They were a dark green almost going to blue, but not quite.

“Did you know him, David?” The concern had faded to curiosity. Doubtless after nineteen years of marriage she assumed she knew everyone I knew.

I nodded. Yes, I knew him. But I wouldn’t explain it to her. There would be no point. She wouldn’t understand. At best she would just understand that he was someone I had met, someone I had fucked twice—proving those suspicions she had had about me all along. She would never understand that he had been—still was—the other half of my soul. Of everyone I knew, maybe only Sarah—my daughter who was not my favorite, but who was more like me than I was myself these days—would understand. But I wouldn’t tell her either. There was no point and not enough time.

I sighed and leaned back against the pillows. I held the newspaper against my chest. I was so tired. I remembered the last time we had been together. I remembered his laugh had been so filled with the joy of life and how I had thought of his life going on while mine was ending. Funny how fate played with lives.

I sighed and closed my eyes. I felt myself starting to drift. The drugs that were dripping into my veins were good ones, and I was so incredibly tired. I just wanted to sleep for a little while. “In our dreams our lips brush.” I just wanted to feel those lips one more time.

“David…” I could hear the concern back in her voice. I wished she would just leave me alone. I just wanted to sleep for a little while. Couldn’t she see that I was just so incredibly tired? “David…”

“David, our souls will always seek each other. We are two halves of one whole. We are destined to be together, if not in this life then the next, or the next. But we will always be together. In our dreams our lips brush. In eternity, our souls entwine.”

He reached out and traced the line of my cheek with one finger. I looked in his eyes and I could see the truth in them. And I could see something else. I could see my reflection in his eyes. And in that reflection, I could see his reflection. Like the endless reflections of two mirrors face to face, stretching into infinity, into eternity.

I covered his hand with mine and brought it to my lips. I kissed each of his fingers, one by one, and placed a soft kiss upon his palm. And I repeated his words to him, whispered them softly, with every ounce of my last breath.

“In eternity, our souls entwine.”


I sighed against my pillow as I slowly drifted toward consciousness. I felt a sense of peace and happiness spread through me, a wave of warmth that made me feel like I was wrapped up in an electric blanket. I stretched, smiled and sighed again. I didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to open my eyes. I just wanted to spend the rest of eternity wrapped up in this blanket. It felt so good. It felt like I had been on a very long journey and had finally come home, home to the soul that would forever entwine with mine.