The Best Day

She let out a triumphant shriek.

“Amen. Now we can finally forget that place ever existed. Go grab a bag of popcorn and a couple of beers from the kitchen — and hurry up. In two minutes, wherever you are, I'm hitting 'Play'.”

He carefully slid the bank notice back into the envelope.

“Can you believe it, Sparky? Twenty-five years. Feels like yesterday. Sunshine, are you sure you want to spend our meetiversary in front of the TV shoveling popcorn? Maybe we should go out, and watch the show tomorrow?”

“Are you kidding?! It's the season premiere!”

Twenty-seven years earlier

He stood in the bedroom doorway, watching his wife fling dresses into the gaping maw of an open suitcase.

“Listen...” he began, but his voice faltered.

“No, you listen!” She whirled on him like a furious tempest, and he flinched from the fire in her eyes. “I'm leaving, you hear me? And I'm taking the kids! Get out of my way, you lecherous old goat!”

Her bitter words slammed shut the tomb of their marriage, each one a stone sealing the crypt.

“Wait. Don't go. Please.”

“Why not?” Another dress flew into the suitcase. “Because you need someone to wash your socks while you knock up floozies on your desk? Bet you only took that promotion for the private office with a locking door!”

It hadn't actually been on the desk — more like the janitor's closet where the cleaning supplies were kept, or cheap hourly-rate motels — but he instinctively knew this wasn't the time to clarify.

“Because I love you.”

“You've got a hell of a way of proving it,” she laughed harshly in his face and tried to slam the suitcase shut. It wouldn't close — dresses spilled out from under the lid, keeping the locks from clicking shut. “I'll send you the divorce papers.”

“No!” The floor seemed to fall away beneath him, and he slid down the wall to the parquetry.

“Yes.”

“Please! I was wrong! I'm so, so sorry!”

“Of course you are. Because now there's no one to cook your dinners and wait for you while you crawl back from your latest escapade!”

“No!!! Not for that! I don't want to lose you!”

“You already did.”

He watched the love of his life walk out of his. How could he make her believe she was the only one who mattered?

She paused in the doorway, set the suitcase down, and turned to face him.

“Why? I need to know. Why did you do it? Was I not enough?”

“Because...” He faltered. “Because I'm about to turn fifty. I get out of breath walking uphill. I can't read small print without squinting. If someone talks to me and I'm not straight at them, I have to ask them to repeat. The wrinkles on my forehead have stopped smoothing out, and frankly, my forehead's creeping halfway up my skull. I used to run ten kilometers without breaking a sweat; now, after a minute, I'm gasping and clutching my side.” He took a breath, still sitting on the floor, a living portrait of everything he just confessed. “I'm getting old. But inside, I still feel young, strong, healthy. And I didn't know which version of me was real. The one inside — strong, bold, full of life, partying and enjoying himself — or the one outside — a wreck held together by a suit? Am I still an effective leader who successfully reorganized Red Hook Enterprises' R&D department, or just a beached seal they promoted out of the way so I'd stop interfering with real work? I couldn't ask you — you know the inner me better than I do, but you don't see the outer one. Who else could I ask? How was I supposed to know if I was still alive or should be already picking out a coffin?”

“You definitely should've been at least saving for one. Would've come in handy now.”

She stood there, suitcase at her feet, tapping her shoe against it. He'd bought her those shoes a few days ago, presented them last night for their anniversary, lying about the price by a hundred twenty dollars. The extra money had gone to a necklace for that other woman. Another mistake to add to his growing collection of regrets. Oh, if only he could go back six weeks, before his life got so complicated...

He raised his hand, showing her the scratched and battered Tissot on his wrist.

“I'm like this watch, see? The casing's worn, the bracelet rusted, the glass cloudy from scratches. But inside, the mechanism is still ticking perfectly. Which one's real? Is it old trash or vintage antiquity?”

“And in your infinite wisdom, you thought it best to consult an outside expert?”

“'Wisdom' isn't quite the word I'd use, but, metaphorically, yes.”

“And what was the expert's verdict?”

“Need to get in shape, lose weight, work on my chest and abs. Apparently, it's not just running that leaves me winded after two minutes. Overall, it wasn't worth the price of admission.”

She waited, arms crossed, still tapping her shoe.

“And I was curious. You see, we've been together twenty-seven years. I know you. I know how you react to my touch, how you move, how you sigh. Another woman... When you and I met, I was... I'd never been with anyone else.” The shoe stilled.

“She was your first affair?!”

“She was my second woman ever. And I don't feel anything for her. No emotions. Gratitude, maybe. Curiosity. Certainly not love. A stupid, childish need to feel young again. But it turned out... It was like scratching your back against a rough wall. Sure, it feels good for a moment, but it's nothing you can't get at home. Curiosity satisfied, the desire to feel young shattered by reality. I love you, only you, and I swear... If you come back... I'll never look at another woman again.”

She tapped the suitcase one last time and stood silent, clearly weighing her decision.

“I've heard your arguments. Now l'm going to leave and think about it. But remember this: I'm not getting any younger either. I, too, want to feel alive. Right now, the score's two to one in your favor. When — rather, if — I come back, the matter of that score will be the last conversation we ever have. And just so we're clear... If I find out you've put a 'three' up on your side of the board, that will be the end. Forever.”

She lifted the suitcase and disappeared into the damp, bitter October air. The door slammed behind her. But the chill outside was nothing compared to the ice gripping his heart.

That anniversary he marked by plunging headfirst into a brutal, grim, unrelenting bender, spiraling down from aged whiskey in the home bar to rotgut from a plastic jug bought in a back alley with cash. God knows what was in this swill — half the periodic table, and a lion's share of methanol, for sure — but he decided not to care.

The first thing he saw when he woke up in the hospital four days later was his wife's face.

Thirty-nine years earlier

“My sunshine!”

He swept her up in his arms and spun her around. She laughed joyfully, her vivid auburn hair catching in the autumn breeze and flaring under the pale October sun like tongues of flame warding off winter's chill.

“You're suspiciously cheerful for someone who's just been dealing with a bank,” she teased, arching a brow after the obligatory kiss.

“And I've got every reason to be,” he confirmed, gently setting her back on the ground. “We got approved for the mortgage!”

“What about the terms?”

“Twenty-five years, principal and interest, tied to the price index.”

“Well... Sounds standard. And what about the approved sum?”

“That's the best part. Remember that little apartment on Bay View?”

“With the panoramic windows facing the ocean? Don't you dare tell me we can actually afford it now!”

He obediently fell silent, his eyes savoring the golden sparks that lit up hers. She paused for a heartbeat, then threw her arms up in triumph:

“Hooray! We'll have our own place!”

“Not a bad gift for our fifteenth anniversary, eh, Sparky?” He kissed her again, then glanced at the battered wristwatch on his arm and pulled a business card from his pocket. “So... should I call that real estate agent? It's only three o'clock — he should still be in the office. Now, where's the nearest payphone?”

Forty-three years earlier

The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of frosty, autumn-scented air. She kicked off her boots, gave the umbrella a brisk shake, and left it open on the floor to dry.

“Hi! I'm home!”

Her husband peeked out from the kitchen, where he'd been bravely attempting to cook dinner. Unfortunately, his culinary skills left much to be desired. A thick, grayish smoke billowed through the kitchen door.

“Hi, sunshine. Sorry, the patties are...”

She took a sniff of the air, her expression both resigned and amused.

“No worries. You can stop rushing — let's hope they repented of their heresy before you delivered them into the hands of the secular authorities for a proper auto-da-fé.”

He poked dismally at the charred lump of ground meat with a wooden spatula.

“Is it really that bad? I was trying to make something nice for you...”

“Darling, you could revolutionize the world if you wrote a cookbook and called it "Punitive Cuisine". Let's just order a pizza, shall we?”

His face darkened.

“And with what money, exactly? You do know I haven't even found a part-time job in three months!”

“We'll eat through my savings,” she said lightly.

“And how are we supposed to pay the bills next month?”

“I'm counting on you to handle that,” she said, waving an envelope in front of him. “You've got a job interview. And not just anywhere — at the Red Hook Enterprises!”

She ruffled his thick black hair with her hand.

“So here's the plan: we eat pizza, then we drain my account, and after that, we hit the mall, get you a proper haircut, and find a sharp, quality suit. That's good you've already got a decent-looking watch. You need to walk in there looking like they're the lucky ones to have you, not the other way around.”

He grabbed the envelope and pulled out the letter, reading it carefully.

“Wow, Red Hook Enterprises! God, I hope they hire me!”

“They'd be fools not to!” She turned to the fridge, scanning through the magnets for a pizza ad. “You graduated with honors, and besides, there's no way they don't hire you.”

“Why's that?”

“Because this letter arrived on the happiest day of our lives. You do remember what happened on this day eleven years ago, don't you?”

“Of course!” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her soundly.

“Oh, so you do remember. Then where's my present?”

Fifty-one years earlier

The one-room apartment, a cramped sixteen square meters of living area, stretched like a narrow shoebox from one exterior wall to the other in a sixteen-story, ten-entrance high-rise crammed into a dense development block. Its only two windows sat at opposite ends, turning the place into a natural wind tunnel so fierce you could've installed a wind turbine in the middle and powered the whole building.

The realtor who'd convinced them to rent the place swore this cross-breeze would help to save on air conditioning in summer. And technically, he hadn't lied, they did save on the AC all right, — there was no use in turning it on when a relentless sirocco constantly blew through at a steady forty degrees Celsius. The ancient, rattling AC unit managed to squeeze out a few wisps of cool air, but they were instantly whisked away by the burning summer winds.

In winter, the apartment turned into an arctic wasteland. A cup of tea cooled in minutes, and bottles of water developed a thin layer of ice by morning.

He stepped through the door, shrugged off his backpack, hung his only jacket on the bent nail that served as a coat hook, and stomped his feet to shake off October rain and clinging leaves. The downstairs neighbor banged furiously on his ceiling. The soundproofing in the concrete monolith was so poor people in adjacent units could hold conversations without raising their voices.

“Sorry!” he shouted apologetically at the floor, stepped into worn slippers, and shuffled toward the bed.

“Hi,” she greeted him from the lone chair by the table under the window, sitting cross-legged. “You're early. Something happened?”

“Hi, sunshine.” He buried his nose in her red hair. “Nothing special. It was slow at the diner, so I finished cleaning up early, and the boss let me off before three. How's it going? Still working on your thesis?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her head against his chin and stretched, arms out, then wrapped them around his neck. “I've hit a snag with the turbine rotor. If I make it out of steel, the blades will tear themselves apart from centrifugal force at full speed. But if I use a lighter material, the airflow twists them all over the place.”

“So you need something strong but light,” he mused. “Tried titanium?”

“Over budget.” She made a face and rubbed her neck.

“Then make the blades out of balsa wood.”

“Wood?! For the blades of a jet engine?!”

“Yep. Just don't say it outright. Put an endnote: 'Since no one's ever going to read this thesis, assume from this point onward that the blades are made of balsa.' Then do all the calculations for this light plywood. That should sort it out.”

“You think that'll work?!”

“Worked for plenty of students before, why should a time-honored tradition fail you of all people? You really think anyone's gonna bother reading the endnotes in your thesis?”

“I'll try reducing the RPM first,” she muttered, pursing her lips. Then her eyes narrowed in suspicion:

“And what's that hungry gleam in your eye? Don't tell me you skipped breakfast again! What exactly do you plan to eat? There's nothing in the fridge but ice, and it's been there a month, — I wouldn't risk it.”

“I did skip breakfast, but that's not it!” He grinned so broadly she couldn't help but start smiling back. “Remember my friend, the Protestant minister? He's got an opening, and he'll marry us today at five.”