He woke up, saw the sun shining, and cursed. He wanted to wake up early on this particular day, but, as usual, forgot to turn his alarm on. He felt a twinge of sorrow as he rose from the bed, trying to ignore the empty space on the other side. He still wasn’t used to it. Ignoring it was far easier than the alternative.
She woke up in the pitch black to the screech of a particularly annoying alarm clock. She momentarily missed his inability to turn the damned thing on at night. She got ready quickly, incredibly eager to leave.
He was elderly. “Older than some; younger than others,” he’d say. He was friendly, and, knock on wood, in relatively good health. Oh, there was the heart problem a few years back, but she helped him regain his health, and even came up with a way to ensure he’d never forget to take his heart medication. He was a lucky guy.
She was incredibly vague about her age. “I lose track. Twelve hundred and something, I think, unless I’m lying. I can’t remember if I’m lying about my age, that’s how old I am,” she’d say. She was nice enough, and, knock on wood, in fairly good health. He’d helped her develop an individualized approach to her illness and with a combination of support, medication, and therapy, she had been enjoying mental stability for about 35 years now. he reminded her to take her medication, and he held her hair when it was too much. She was a lucky gal.
That morning, he did not feel so lucky. He had overslept, by quite a lot. By the time he finished his morning coffee it was nearly ten o’clock and he was behind by two hours. He skipped his morning routine of reading nearly every online paper he could access, and got straight to work. He thought of nothing but her the entire time.
On that particular morning, she felt exceptionally lucky. She was not a huge fan of waking up early, especially not at such ungodly hours, but was anxious to get a start on her day. By the time she finished her morning coffee, she was ahead by an hour. She lingered on her banana chocolate chip muffin, thinking of him.
They had met when he was in his late twenties. He liked how she carried her files across her chest; she liked how well his pants sat on his hips. If you ask them, however, he’d tell you that he was attracted to her smile, and she would say it was his eyes. The truth is probably some combination of all of the above.
She first met him when the last thing she wanted was a relationship, and was shocked at how she was immediately attracted to him. Between the dark clothes that fit him just right, the smile that made her lose her ability to speak, and his Westley-like eyes, she was, in all honesty, smitten.
He tried for a while to ask her out, and was thrilled when she said yes. The rest, as they say, is history. They had their up sand downs for a number of years, but never once did his love for her waiver or fade. As they grew older, they grew stronger, closer together. Now, not a day goes by that he doesn’t thank Mark for bringing them together (Mark being his boss at the time).
She wasn’t able to string enough coherent words together to ask him out, but thankfully, he managed, and they had a wonderful time. Their relationship wasn’t exactly perfect, but as time went on, they grew stronger, and, even better, closer. She cared for him deeply, and loved him even more. She recalled being thankful her boss had insisted on moving the location of the office, despite the huge headache it had caused.
He took only one break, at one o’clock, to call his step-son. They were very close, and spoke twice a week. Today they chatted mostly about her. About how much he missed her. About loneliness. About love.
She waited until her granddaughter’s nap-time, and then she called her son. They were very close, and spoke three times a week. Today, they chatted about her journey. About how happy she was. About joy. About love.
“You see,” he was wrapping up a story about the first time they had gone to Ste. Anne together, “she couldn’t afford hiking shoes, but that didn’t stop her. She wore these silly dressy flats that somehow survived, and then spent the next 50 years complaining that ‘they don’t make shoes like they used to’.” He and his step-son laughed, each of them hearing her voice saying that exact thing. “As though it’s normal for dress shoes to last a beating like that.”
“You see,” she was wrapping up a story about the first time they had gone to Ste. Anne together, “he was so, so sick, but he knew I had been looking forward to hiking with him, so he went with me anyway.” She had tears in her eyes. Her son called her out on it. They laughed at her sappiness.
He felt the same twinge of sorrow when he hung up, so he got right back to work. He briefly contemplated watching something, but there was nothing that didn’t remind him of her. Instead he allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts until the project was done.
She felt the same rush of anticipation she had felt earlier that morning, and she was nearly incapable of distracting herself. She briefly contemplated trying to read, but there was nothing that didn’t remind her of him. She was suddenly nervous about what she had done. She fiddled with the keychain in her hand, cursing the mechanical trouble that had stopped the train.
At about six, he completed work. He stood back and admired his handiwork. He quickly changed into a shirt and tie, and at seven was pacing the living room floor.
At about six, the train was just starting to move again. She was upset – she had hoped to arrive significantly earlier. Why else wake up so horrifically early?!
At eight, his heart was starting to sink.
At eight, she finally arrived at the station, and got in her car. For the first time in her twelve hundred or so years of existence, she sped. She knew she was okay, that the paperwork was signed, that even if she lost the key it would be okay, but it didn’t quite register. She and her wee, tiny Fit flew, the key pressing painfully into her palm.
At eight fifteen, he wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up, or wet himself.
At eight fifteen, she was pulling onto their street, speeding ticket in hand. They key had left an impression in her palm, but she was so excited that she no longer noticed.
At eight twenty, he decided to go to the washroom, in case he found out.
At eight twenty-five she tore into the house. She could hear him upstairs, gagging in the bathroom. “He remembered his heart pills, but forgot to take them with food,” she said to herself. She went into the kitchen and got him a glass of water. On the way upstairs she noticed the entire living room was different. She paused. What was once their plain, boring room was now a cozy library, with built-in bookshelves, a beautiful chair, and a table set up with a martini and her favourite book. He must have spent the whole time she was away working on it. She darted upstairs.
At eight thirty, he was hunched over the toilet, but felt a cool hand brush against his forehead, and a soft voice whispered in his ear.
At eight thirty, she knelt down behind him, using her free hand to stroke his forehead. Forgetting about the key in her other hand, she raised her arm to rub his back. The key fell to the floor with a clang. He looked down and saw a very familiar logo.
He couldn’t believe it at first. She had spent her advance; not on leaving him, but on spoiling him. He was so shocked, he threw up.
She tried to think fast.“You forgot to eat, didn’t you, you silly boy.”
He smiled and slowly turned around. “I’m hardly a boy.”
“Older than some,” she smiled, “younger than others,” she handed him a cool, damp cloth, a glass of water, and the key to a Porsche 911, “and perfection to me.”