By: Reed Clements
Richmond Hill High School

She made orange juice that morning, freshly squeezed sunlight that tasted of life - but the oranges had been past their prime and the juice was bad. She dumped it, and went to her breakfast.

“I’ve done it!” he exclaimed.

She looked up from her plate with a hint of surprise and saw his smiling face. The light that washed out from those sea-hued eyes was the same now as it had been half a century ago; the rest of his face had been transformed by the harsh weather of age, although it still possessed some gentle reminiscence of his youth. She waited for him to finish his declaration.

“You know,” he continued. “Better than anyone, you know what I mean. All my life’s work has been fulfilled: my children are raised and independent; my marriage is enduring still after almost four decades; and now, my life’s work, my career, is ended. To retirement!”

He raised his glass of orange juice in an almost comical gesture of celebration. She smiled and imitated him: “To retirement!”

“And now that everything I once hoped to achieve has been achieved, I am free to sit back in leisure and enjoy the rest of my days.”

A thought crossed her mind and a frown crossed her face. “But isn’t this the highest point there is?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she began, but then hesitated a moment. How exactly could she express the horrors of old age? The two of them would slowly lose their bodies: their senses fading and their muscles deteriorating until they were reliant upon objects and machines in order to function. Then, thus incapacitated, their minds would slip into senility and dementia. Once clear oceans of thought and feeling, they would plummet into a hellish abyss of confusion and pain, and eventually they would forget each other and their love. No great joy awaited them in the afterlife that came before death.

“Forget I said anything,” she finally concluded. She couldn’t possibly explain her fears to him, when he looked to the future and saw, through the fractured prism of his dreams, nothing but a happy time of serenity for the two of them. To say that life was anything less than his ideal would be to provoke an argument, and the last thing she wanted on this day was to fight with the man she so cherished.

“No, no, go on,” he said. “You always have the most wonderful things to say!” His eyes shone so brightly with adoration and curiosity that she knew she had to say something, and so she quickly improvised.

“Well, what I meant was that tonight we are celebrating, aren’t we? Tonight will be the perfect evening, the highest moment of our lives. We’ve built up to this day ever since we met, and everything after tonight will simply be the falling action of our lives. An anticlimax, even.”

“Tonight, yes!” he exclaimed. “Tonight will be the greatest night of our lives! But that doesn’t make everything after tonight simply an anticlimax. Life is something to be enjoyed, dear, and we can enjoy it even in the shadow of a perfect memory. Now I’m off to prepare the dinner – your favourite.” He stood up, then leaned over and kissed her lightly on her greying hair. As he straightened, she saw him wince slightly at the pain in his back.

Tonight shall never be just a memory for you, my love.

*

 Like distant streetlamps the candles sat gently on the oak table, their fluttering flames casting more shadow than light around the dining room. The warm, rich aromas of pork and applesauce mixed together in the air: the same scent that had filled her nostrils on the night he had proposed. Perhaps it was not the most luxurious dinner, but sentiment was a better seasoning than money in her opinion, especially on a night like this.

The weathered skin around his lips folded into wrinkles every time he smiled, and yet in her eyes he was still as handsome as he had been in his younger days: what had been lost in youth had been gained in wisdom. She knew that he would find beauty in the creases that ran across her own face, even though she herself could barely stand the image of what she had become. Time could destroy even the most perfect piece of art.

“Where shall we go, for our lives?” he asked her, the candlelight painting small stars in his eyes. “I mean, I would love to live out the rest of my days here, but the romance of some distant city – Venice, perhaps – would be a wonderful experience to have.”

She noticed that his voice had begun to age, too: where once it had been warm and soothing like a summer breeze it was beginning to soften and crack into an autumn gust. At least deafness had not set in to destroy their communication altogether. “Well, dear, Venice certainly is a nice place, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life trying to learn a language.”

“Italian is as beautiful as languages get, but you’re right. Perhaps a more solitary place? Up north?”

There is enough solitude in dementia, she thought, when the chasm between oneself and the world widens beyond communication. “Up north would be wonderful during the summer, but the winter would be too much to bear.”

He took the last piece of meat off his plate and chewed on it. Teeth – yes, they were a luxury to be enjoyed, now, no longer to be taken for granted. She smiled to him, displaying the yellowing mural that would soon decay and crumble. He swallowed his food and smiled back, and the look that passed between their eyes was transcendental. She savoured this moment: blindness would inevitably destroy the magic of their gaze, in time.

She drank the rest of her wine, and watched very carefully as he drank his. The wine had been red, for passion, and passion it kindled: she could feel it washing out from her stomach and warming her entire body. She saw the amorous blush blossom on his face, and as if they were connected by some inner bond they both stood without a word.

The two wandered up the stairs together, still strong enough to climb them. His arm was around her, and she leaned her head into him. No words were spoken, as none were necessary.

They entered the bedroom and embraced, and began to remove their clothing. Yes, their bodies were aged and wrinkled, but the intensity of their love was not dimmed at all. They climbed beneath the thick blanket and made love as passionately as they had a million times before.

As her breathing slowly returned to normal, she hugged him and revelled in the euphoria he brought to her. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he gently replied, and then the couple drifted together into the twilight world of fantasy, one last time.

*

With morning came waking, and his body, pressed to tightly against hers, was still warm. She listened for his breathing and heard that her work was done; she shed a tear, but was not sad. Emerging from the bed and dressing herself, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

A storm of thoughts swarmed in her mind. For the first time, the consequences of her act of love were becoming clear to her: the rest of her life would be empty and lonely, and she would most likely be condemned by those ignorant people who couldn’t understand what a selfless act she had performed. She could hardly keep it a secret, either: the autopsy would reveal all, and besides, she couldn’t mourn at a funeral she had caused.

She opened the curtains and the morning sun illuminated the room. Suddenly her future was clear. She bent over to open the bottom drawer and took the bottle which she had half-emptied into his wine the night before; still a lethal dose remained. As she straightened up, her lower back cried out in pain.

She swallowed the poison in a single gulp, and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. She flung herself upon the bed and wrapped her arms tightly around his body. Let them find us, free from the boredom of idleness. Let them find us, free from collapse and suffering of old age. Let them find us, like Romeo and Juliet, like Pyramus and Thisbe – together, in death, and in love.

© Copyright 2008