The dancing shadows from the tall blue tapers played across the
walls of the dining room and scurried over the tablecloth and curtains like mischievous children.
She set the plate carefully at the head of the table and stepped back to admire her handiwork. With
a weary sigh, she pulled the chair out and sat down, taking a long sip from the glass of white wine
before her. She checked her watch. Quarter past eight. She didn't give up hope -- it wasn't even a
possibility -- but she was disappointed he hadn't shown yet. Until she heard a faint rustle that
drew her out of her reverie. "You're late," she said with a smile. "You know how convoluted time
can get for me." He crossed the room and embraced her as she rose. She sank into his arms, losing
herself in their feel. When she stepped back to take in the vision of him, her mouth opened in a
small gasp. "Why, Donovan Bailey," she said. "Is that gray I detect above your ears?" "Indeed it
is, madam," he replied with a flourish. "I was hoping you'd find me more distinguished as I grew
older." Her eyebrows arched. "You don't have to do that, you know." "Marie," he began, his voice
soft, floating around them in what she felt was sweet melody. "When I said I wanted to grow old
with you, I meant it." She blinked hard as she sat across from him at the table. She ate sparingly,
too busy filling him in on the past year's events. The candlelight flickered across his features,
played in his eyes as they devoured the vision of her. He didn't eat, but merely sat at the end of
the table, entranced by her voice. "Of course," she continued after a sip of wine, "it wasn't the
same without you. No one understood why I was giggling like a schoolgirl during 'Jesu, Joy of Man's
Desiring'." He chuckled. "Bach must have rolled in his grave over that." Years before, he'd taken
her to a concert in the park. The warmth of summer's end and the darkness of the night sky
enveloped them as the sun disappeared, leaving the two of them, arms tangled, amidst the strains of
Bach as they wafted around them. She could remember him whispering the title of the piece softly in
her ear as his hands had slid deftly and delicately to the warm, dark space between her legs. The
blackness of the night afforded them the privacy to honor Bach's work in their own, unique way, and
they honored it lovingly and hungrily, her fingernails digging into his thighs as he made her
juices flow. She still recalled how her excitement crescendoed in time with the music, how the
allegro movement of his practiced fingers probed the most secret parts of her as he searched for
her moans in the darkness. She remembered how she released herself quietly under the ministration
of his hand, fading pleasantly into an andante mood as the last bars of the inspiring work floated
away. "Marie," he said, drawing her back to the dining room and the present. "Don't you think it's
time you thought about finding someone else? Someone to keep you company, someone to make you happy
like that again?" "You make me happy." "You know what I mean." She looked at her plate as her
fingers worked the corner of the napkin into tiny folds. "No one can make me happy like you did,
Donovan." "But you're young and --" "I'm 56.

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" "That's young." "I'm set in my ways," she said, her
voice gently but clearly conveying she had no interest in carrying this conversation thread any
further. "No one can replace the eighteen years we had together. No one." It wasn't that she hadn't
thought about it; she'd met a few men who had tempted her here and there. But Marie Bailey had
created a life for herself that didn't allow for the unfamiliar. It didn't allow for her to give up
this. They rose in unison, so many years giving them the ability to act as one, even now. He went
to her and enfolded her once again in his arms. "I'm glad," he said softly in her ear. "I don't
want to be without this." She moaned softly as his lips brushed over the soft skin behind her ear.
It had never felt like this, in the eighteen years they'd been married. She'd never felt the odd
sensation of him moving through her like a light breeze, of his hands tingling over her skin like
this, like they did now. Like they had last year, and the six years before that. She helped him by
removing her blouse and skirt and letting them fall to the floor. "You never kept such a messy
house when I was here," he murmured provocatively, glancing at the disheveled pile of clothing at
her feet. "I can take liberties now," she replied, her breath rushing to catch up with her words as
his hands traveled over the bare flesh of her back. She reached behind her to unhook her bra and
let that, too, fall to the floor. She heard a soft groan creep out of his throat as she moved back
a bit and stepped out of her panties. "Shall we?" She asked as she moved to go upstairs. He
followed her, his eyes dancing palpably over her body, watching her hips sway as she slowly climbed
the stairs before him. In the bedroom, she lost herself in the darkness and lay on the bed. She
knew she would not feel him slide into her the way he'd done all those years before. She knew that
the hands she felt caressing her skin now and pausing over her dark, hardened nipples were not
real. She felt the now familiar tingle as she joined with him in a way no other human she knew
could do, as his form slipped through the thin veil that kept them apart now. In her mind, she felt
him slide up alongside her in the bed, her skin on cold fire from the ethereal glow of his touch.
She felt him respond to the warmth and wetness between her legs without words. And while the back
she gripped with fingernails wasn't really flesh and blood, he'd done his best to create the
illusion for her that it was. They molded themselves together so easily, their familiarity being
the greatest comfort rather than the greatest bore. She felt him everywhere at once -- inside her,
above her, behind her, around her. She felt him touch the deepest crevices of her mind as the first
wave of her orgasm began, and she cried his name out into the darkness. "I still love you, Marie,"
he said softly. "I know." It was understood that this was their goodbye until the next time they'd
meet, one year later. And as she always did, she went to the cemetery the next day with a bouquet
of yellow daisies, his favorite, and placed them on the headstone of one Donovan Bailey, loving
husband, who'd died of cancer seven years before. 

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