This piece of fiction is intended as adult entertainment. It contains material of an adult, explicit, sexual nature. If you are offended by sexually explicit content or language, please do not read any further.
All characters in this story are fictitious; any similarity to any persons, places, individuals or situations is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2005 Jim Reader. All rights reserved.
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Beth and I were married right out of high school. We'd been sweethearts most of our lives and our marriage worked. It was glorious. We were so happy we'd cry together after we made love, holding each other all night.
But fifteen years can take a bit of the shine off and when you've borne each other's moods and eccentricities and bad days and childish tantrums for that long, sometimes the romance is hard to find. While the love is still so strong it can hurt when you look at each other, most of your days are spent in a routine that offers little in the way of excitement.
Until the doctor looks at her test results and says the "C" word and the "advanced stages" words... and rips out your heart with the phrase "we'll try everything but I really don't hold out much hope". And while you're trying to find a pulse in your own arm, while you're praying he's wrong or it's some cruel joke, well, everything gets real again and nothing's routine anymore.
Every day she felt up to it I made love to her, as long and as gently as I could. And when she didn't feel up to it, I'd hold her hand to my lips and bathe it in kisses and tears, inhaling the scent of her, healthy or not, memorizing it, studying her face, erasing in my mind every sign of pain so I'd never forget who and what my Beth was, cherishing each smile, numbering them, cataloguing them.
It was quick. After Smile 348, there were no more as she was no more. I so wanted to go with her.
But Beth wouldn't have liked that, so I kept living and pretended to enjoy it.
It was a few days before my thirty-fourth birthday when I got a call from Dan, an old friend of ours.
"Chris, your birthday's coming up. While I doubt you're in the mood to celebrate, Beth left us with clear instructions the last time we saw her. Sandy and I are to take you out, show you a good time and give you Beth's presents for you."
So that's what Smile 325 had meant, the sly smirk that had crossed her face one morning. Is it any mystery why I loved her?
That Friday night I was at Beth's and my favorite club, a little piano bar called "Clyde's Place", waiting on Dan and Sandy. It was mostly empty for the first set of the evening.
The club had a new singer, Carly Galvan. She was maybe five foot two, the kind of thin that comes from genetics not anorexia or heroin, late twenties or early thirties, calm and composed as she walked to the mike in a simple black spaghetti-strapped sheath that clung to her body, hung to her ankles and was slit to her knees. She seemed to me too small and frail to hold much of a voice and I checked my watch, wondering where Dan and Sandy were and why they hadn't called. Checked my cell phone to find I'd left it at home. Intelligent of me, I know.
Then with Ed, Clyde's son, at the piano Carly launched into "Chances Are" and my view of her shifted like the San Andreas relieving stress. From that tiny, frail-looking woman came a voice that was a little Marianne Faithful, a touch of Janis Joplin, all mellowed with the smoothness of Diana Krall, driven out of her body with passion and control.
I didn't notice when the tears began rolling down my cheeks. To hear one of Beth's favorites sung so beautifully, it was as if Beth sat beside me. I knew if I reached out my hand, I'd feel her soft skin beneath my fingers and I knew I was mad for thinking so. I kept my eyes on Carly, on the bar, afraid to look to my right, afraid to break the magic that was giving me one last moment with my love, a moment that would be over far too soon.
And then it wasn't. She went into "Unforgettable" and my heart pounded in my chest as her voice wrapped around my mind. Beth was stroking my hand, I felt her. My love was there and I knew I was losing it. I fought to keep my sobs silent.
"So this is what a nervous breakdown feels like," I thought to myself. But she was there and if two songs of having her near meant the rest of my life in a padded room it was a small price to pay.
And then it was three. We stroked each others hands through "What a Wonderful World". I knew I was delusional. So what?
