stirred against
the curve of her buttocks.
He shifted his hips away abruptly, as he would have done had
a child, wriggling in his lap, prompted an inadvertent sexual response.
He needed time. An evening of candlelight and good food
would reshape his mood, make him forget the ninety year difference in their
ages. Even a few minutes might be enough, but not now , with the water rinsing away the delicacy of his fantasies.
He didn’t have time. The stiffening of her shoulders told
him she’d taken offense.
Ah, thought Neil, he’d buried himself now. She’d made an
offer, and he had slapped it down. She wouldn’t leave herself open for
rejection a second time. If he wanted anything to happen later, he’d have to
pursue her with diligence. She’d make him ask, in words, and would give him no
encouragement until her ego had recovered.
But he didn’t want to pursue her with that kind of fervor
until he was more sure of his feelings for her. Yet to delay would surely cause
yet another insult. He didn’t have to be a genius to know that all too soon,
Felice would be looking for a new tennis partner.
Slowly, like a senior citizen, Neil rinsed the soap from his
hands.
o0o
Daffodils bloomed along the walkways of the cemetery. The
heat of late spring had already shriveled natural daffs, but here the yellow
King Alfreds and orange-and-tan Saharan Lords stood tall and proud, maintained
by their own versions of nanodocs, programmed by the groundskeeper.
Neil followed a route his feet had traveled many times
before, until the headstones took on dates-of-birth that sent a burble of acid
up his esophagus. 1950. 1955. 1960. 1965. The last generation to die of old
age. He could find the names of kindergarten classmates on those marble and
granite markers. By the law of averages, his mortal remains should be here,
too. But that burst appendix hadn’t claimed him, the lymphoma had been
treatable, that drunk driver had swerved at the last moment. Here he was.
An ancient oak tree shaded the particular resting site that
he had come to see. Weather had muted the sharpness of the carved letters. He
scanned across the name to the impossible date-of-death. How had thirty-two
years passed with so little in them?
Kneeling, he placed a lavender rose upon the grass, over the
spot he imagined his good wife’s heart to be.
“You spoiled me, Stacey,” he said to the earth. “You set my
damn standards too high.”
Was that it? Was he carrying a torch? Was her ghost
jealously guarding him, perhaps? Convenient, to think it was only that.
The rose caught a sunbeam that slipped through the oak
leaves. The petals drooped in the increasing heat. The flower had not been
programmed to last.
That was the way it had to be.
A family appeared through the cemetery gates, making a
procession toward a large crypt near the fountain. Every adult of the group
walked on long, supple legs, their unlined faces tilted away from the day’s
brilliance.
Two lanky men, so similar in appearance they could’ve been
twins, brought up the rear. From their body language, Neil doubted they were
twins. More likely the one on the left was the great-grandfather of the one on
the right.
Neil worked his way back through the graves. At the
entrance, a woman stepped onto the lawn with a small bouquet in her hands. As
the distance between them closed, he automatically made eye contact.
Her fine reddish curls and her figure brought a concealed
smile of appreciation to his face, but when he saw recognition spark in her
green eyes, he stopped short. So did she.
“I know you, don’t I?” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I saw you at the clinic, the morning
after my nanodocs were implanted.”
“My morning-after, too.” She looked at her bouquet, and then
at a set of headstones, as if measuring the distance between the two. But she
didn’t walk on. Instead, she smiled.
“My name’s Neil.”
“Nadine.”
Neil and Nadine — it had
a nice, alliterative ring.
the curve of her buttocks.
He shifted his hips away abruptly, as he would have done had
a child, wriggling in his lap, prompted an inadvertent sexual response.
He needed time. An evening of candlelight and good food
would reshape his mood, make him forget the ninety year difference in their
ages. Even a few minutes might be enough, but not now , with the water rinsing away the delicacy of his fantasies.
He didn’t have time. The stiffening of her shoulders told
him she’d taken offense.
Ah, thought Neil, he’d buried himself now. She’d made an
offer, and he had slapped it down. She wouldn’t leave herself open for
rejection a second time. If he wanted anything to happen later, he’d have to
pursue her with diligence. She’d make him ask, in words, and would give him no
encouragement until her ego had recovered.
But he didn’t want to pursue her with that kind of fervor
until he was more sure of his feelings for her. Yet to delay would surely cause
yet another insult. He didn’t have to be a genius to know that all too soon,
Felice would be looking for a new tennis partner.
Slowly, like a senior citizen, Neil rinsed the soap from his
hands.
o0o
Daffodils bloomed along the walkways of the cemetery. The
heat of late spring had already shriveled natural daffs, but here the yellow
King Alfreds and orange-and-tan Saharan Lords stood tall and proud, maintained
by their own versions of nanodocs, programmed by the groundskeeper.
Neil followed a route his feet had traveled many times
before, until the headstones took on dates-of-birth that sent a burble of acid
up his esophagus. 1950. 1955. 1960. 1965. The last generation to die of old
age. He could find the names of kindergarten classmates on those marble and
granite markers. By the law of averages, his mortal remains should be here,
too. But that burst appendix hadn’t claimed him, the lymphoma had been
treatable, that drunk driver had swerved at the last moment. Here he was.
An ancient oak tree shaded the particular resting site that
he had come to see. Weather had muted the sharpness of the carved letters. He
scanned across the name to the impossible date-of-death. How had thirty-two
years passed with so little in them?
Kneeling, he placed a lavender rose upon the grass, over the
spot he imagined his good wife’s heart to be.
“You spoiled me, Stacey,” he said to the earth. “You set my
damn standards too high.”
Was that it? Was he carrying a torch? Was her ghost
jealously guarding him, perhaps? Convenient, to think it was only that.
The rose caught a sunbeam that slipped through the oak
leaves. The petals drooped in the increasing heat. The flower had not been
programmed to last.
That was the way it had to be.
A family appeared through the cemetery gates, making a
procession toward a large crypt near the fountain. Every adult of the group
walked on long, supple legs, their unlined faces tilted away from the day’s
brilliance.
Two lanky men, so similar in appearance they could’ve been
twins, brought up the rear. From their body language, Neil doubted they were
twins. More likely the one on the left was the great-grandfather of the one on
the right.
Neil worked his way back through the graves. At the
entrance, a woman stepped onto the lawn with a small bouquet in her hands. As
the distance between them closed, he automatically made eye contact.
Her fine reddish curls and her figure brought a concealed
smile of appreciation to his face, but when he saw recognition spark in her
green eyes, he stopped short. So did she.
“I know you, don’t I?” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I saw you at the clinic, the morning
after my nanodocs were implanted.”
“My morning-after, too.” She looked at her bouquet, and then
at a set of headstones, as if measuring the distance between the two. But she
didn’t walk on. Instead, she smiled.
“My name’s Neil.”
“Nadine.”
Neil and Nadine — it had
a nice, alliterative ring.
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