Наши судьбы тесно сплелись, но не соединились...
It was late. At this period of spring the sun started to take its time to go down, as lazy as the poor souls its first warm rays lashed.
Despite the chandelier on the table, his old eyes couldn't read any longer; Thomas carefully placed a paper between the pages and put down the book on his lap where a blanket already rested. It had become a habit -almost a routine- for years to end the day on the terrace behind the house, just a few steps from the open door, a pipe occasionally between his lips.
Two hands marked by the years took his glasses from his aquiline nose, 3 or 4 grey hairs caught in the metallic arms.
Head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes, nothing to listen but the wind of May on the grass and the subtle but regular beating of his heart.
The sky was clear tonight ; tomorrow will be fresh.
"I like what you did with the house…"
A voice…
"Of course there are some colors on some curtains that I wouldn't have chosen but… as a whole, I really like it."
That voice.
He opened his eyes and turned slowly his pupils whitened by the commencement of a cataract. At the other side of the table, a vision: luxuriant auburn hair cascading on her chest, shining hazel eyes focused on his, pink lips slightly open in a gentle smile and a perfect face, frozen in her everlasting 33 year old beauty.
"Am I in Heaven?", he barely spoke afraid to break the spell, whoever put it on him.
Her head shook in a silent 'no'.
"Did I finally lose my mind?"
She chuckled, and this sound made him unexpectedly shiver.
"Not yet."
"Am I dreaming?"
"Oh… do you have dreams about me Tom?"
Tom. Almost forty-four years this word disappeared from his existence. He didn't know he missed those three letters so much 15 seconds ago.
"So I'm in Hell", he concluded. "And you are my eternal torture."
"This is absurd. Why would you end up in Hell?"
"I have some ideas…"
Thomas was a Cartesian man made of logic. Observation. Hypothesis. Experimentation. Result. Interpretation. And every fibers of his being knew she couldn't be in front of him right now. But here he was: completely unable to take his eyes off his Patty.
"You are a good man. But a good man living in a bad and tough time." She reached out her arms over the table and covered his hand with her -soft skin against wrinkled skin- but the warmth was missing.
"And you, you are an illusion my dearest dear. You are the product of my great age, my tiredness, my regrets. You are… not there."
"Does it really matter?"
"No. Not really in fact."
Her fingers intertwined with his. Always the absence of heat but truly, it didn't matter.
"I'm proud of you Tom."
"What do you mean?"
"All the things that you made, for our girls, our country…I'm glad to wear your name," she said as her thumb traced circles over the back of his hand, "I am proud of you."
"How can you know?"
"Because I saw you."
"You saw me?"
"Of course", she offered him a thoughtful smile, "Everything. Every day." and nothing to read but kindliness on her face.
Thomas closed his fatigued eyes and was sure now: a place was waiting for him in Hell. She saw everything. His sweet sweet Patty saw everything.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered.
"For what? For being just… a human being? With qualities and flaws ; with needs ; with a heart, and a body. I died Tom. Not you," and every silence following her words was getting heavier on his chest, "I want you to be happy."
"Happiness run away from my life years ago."
He reopened his eyes. The beautiful torture was still there, a concerned expression on the face and cold little fingers around his.
"Patty please, forgive me."
"I will not give you my forgiveness Thomas, because you did nothing requiring it."
She squeezed his hand with hers once again and let it go.
Each of her movements absorbed his attention: the way she pulled behind her ear locks of auburn hair, the dance of the white fabric around her body and her elegance when she finally sat up like a marble statuette. The apparition walked around the table, making her way to the main door of the terrace, and he knew that at the precise second she went inside the house she wouldn't be there anymore, leaving, one more time.
"Don't go…"
She stopped, just at his side and looked down at him. Oh God… how beautiful she remained. If his body wasn't crippled by the years, he would have fallen on his knees and begged in the ruffles of her dress to not go again. But no. Thomas stayed in his chair.
Gently, she set her hand on his face. The tenderness in her gesture contrasted with the cold of her fingers, but he still didn't mind. Her palm brushed his lips, and he leaned into the touch, remembering every variation of her skin against his ; she whispered:
"Soon, my love…"
She smiled again and he closed his eyes. The contact disappeared in a caress and there was no need to look the emptiness in front of him: Patty was gone. His grey head fell slowly against the back of the seat as his entire body slumping in it. Maybe if he kept the eyes shut enough, he could save this last smile from her, these last words, this last touch… Immobile, Thomas didn't know how much time he rested like this.
And then, a voice again. Feminine. Familiar.
"Father…" followed by a pressure on his arm, "Father." and more alarm in the tone. "Father!"
Lazily he opened his eyes and blinked: same colors as his own, two worried orbs examined him.
"I am not dead yet Patsy…"
"Please don't talk like this," she sighed. The woman offered her arm and helped him to stand, holding the blanket and the book with her other hand. "It's late. You need your rest."
"You are the cane of my old age."
"I know," she added while leading him. "I'm sorry for having woken you. You seemed so serene."
"Contrary to my habit?"
Pasty laughed softly
"I didn't say that,". They passed through the door, "What were you dreaming about?", and got into the darkness of the somnolent house.
"A promise…"

@темы: нежность, любовь...., Моему Мужу, sweetheart, split mind, sadness...