Nous avons faim

The long shadow of the Place Vendôme fell upon us before she was bluelit, nearly vanishing in the diffused light, nearly taking us with it. For just a moment, how I wished exactly that. Given what had happened in the intervening decades, we -- I -- could have lived with such a dénouement. I tried to think only of the task at hand, one so dear, so vital, to the both of us, but that delicious memory, along with so many others, welled up from the deep, cresting and crashing in a tearful cataclysm as I read her barely legible script.

I thought of Père Lachaise and the two of us leaning against Proust's tenebrous slab trying to outwit each other, and how I so often failed. I remembered the narrow black doors of Chausson's famished crypt and arguing over which was better, the concert in D or the trio in G minor, making up by zigzagging hither and yon until one of us caught the other. And now, she would be joining that exclusive company, not in that most famous necropolis, but somewhere close.

Then, when I played Come, heavy sleepe, she had laughed, not at my choice of Dowland, but at my bold step of something unexpected, something old in lieu of the ubiquitous goodnight kiss. My rewards were bushels of those evening after evening as we greedily explored the unmapped places of the world and each other.

Now, she looked at me with those sad, grey eyes resting against the cold, wooden headboard, and I thought of when we learned each other's secret so long ago, promising to keep it safe no matter what.

Her sallow, motionless face belied the warmth still coursing through her body as I took her wrinkled hand in mine. Despite the condition that had sapped her once fierce strength, she managed to grip me tightly, conjuring a primal fire one more time. Whatever splendidly destructive passion that once separated us fell away as crumbling masonry, revealing the graceful, unbreakable foundation beneath.

Those heather pearls sifted the air above before descending to meet me, a gentle, pink smile painted on her weary, yet still beautiful face. Her lips could no longer speak, but she voiced thick volumes with her silent plea, remembering our mutual promise. Of course she remembered. I cried, as did she. Whomever was left was tasked with keeping our secrets. I never believed that I'd be the one.

I kissed that gentle, pink smile in the lengthening shade and watched her eyes close for the last time, waiting for her breath to vanish in the diffused light. When it did, I wept, then sat stunned as a giggle broke through the inexorable cascade. This time she would have laughed at me for such childlike hesitation. Werewolves are a bit too gamy, even to us ghouls, but a promise is a promise. Rest in peace, my love.