The Best Day

The Best Day

by Alexey Burshtein

Last October

A cold wind swirled the yellowed leaves outside the window. The rain couldn't decide whether to fall or not, settling instead for occasionally blurring the glass with watery veils. Through the breaks in the clouds, distant mountains were visible, where sunlight, yielding to shadows, slowly retreated toward the peaks.

On this side of the window frame, it was dry and cool. The air smelled sharply of decay and medicine, and the whispering air freshener in the corner couldn't mask it. The center of the room was occupied by a high-tech bed, every part of which was adjustable. Medical equipment hung from the stands around it, oxygen tanks were secured at the headboard, their tubes snaking across the blue sheet to the nostrils of the man lying there. IVs fed the dying man's blood with doses of medication. The heart monitor beeped steadily, tracking the beats of an old, worn-out heart.

On a metal chair with a vinyl seat, placed beside the headboard, sat a woman, just as withered and aged as the man in the bed. She held her husband's hand in hers. His hand was thin, almost weightless; beneath the yellowed, papery skin, bones were palpable. The old Tissot watch on his wrist hung loosely — two fingers could slip beneath the scratched metal band. There was almost no muscle left in his arm; the prolonged battle with illness had drained him dry. She remembered how strong those hands had once been, how they could spin her in a dance, lift her into the air, how she could lean back into them, laughing, certain they would never drop her, never let her come to harm. She remembered how tightly the watch had once fit his wrist — and fresh tears traced the wet paths down from her aged, dimming eyes.

“Now, now, enough of that,” her husband chided softly. His voice was weak, barely louder than a whisper, and when another gust of rain rattled the window, she had to strain to hear him. “No more crying.”

“I...” Flustered, the woman pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “I just can't get used to the idea that... Well...”

“We've talked about this many times,” his voice rustled through the room like the orange leaves spinning in the October wind outside. “There's no hope left — you know that. We've gone over it with the doctors again and again, and...”

He paused, inhaling deeply from the oxygen, gathering strength to finish. In the silence that followed, the October wind, sneaking into the room, tangled in the strings of the lonely guitar standing in the corner.

“...And we agreed that today would be a good day to end it.”

“I don't want you to go.” She sniffled and squeezed his hand a little tighter — but not enough to hurt him. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

“I don't like it either, Sparky,” he murmured. “But we've been given more time than we expected. And I'd rather go on my own terms, while I'm still lucid enough to make the choice. You know the alternative — my body might last another three to five months, but there'd be so many drugs in my blood that the bedbugs here would start thinking they're acromantulas from Harry Potter.”

“There are no bedbugs in this bed,” she managed a teary smile.

“Figure of speech.” He took another breath of oxygen. “You know how it'll be. A machine will breathe for me. I'll be fed through a tube. Either drugged out of my mind or in too much pain to show it. I'll still die,” he forced out the forbidden word, “but on the disease's terms, not mine. And you remember...”

“...You've always done everything on your own terms.” She lifted his dry, birdlike hand and kissed it, her fingertips brushing the loose watch on his wrist. “I understand. But I'm still sad.”

“Hey, smile, sunshine,” he tried to squeeze her hand in return. “You'll have a whole free room. Sell all this junk,” he glanced at the equipment by the bed, “and you'll have enough for good canvases and paints. You can paint again! You always wanted to turn the mountain-facing room into a studio!”

The woman, whose hair had long since lost its red hue and who hadn't been called “Sparky” or “sunshine” by anyone but her husband in twenty years, began to cry again.

“You... You...”

“Hard-nosed cynic, I know,” he whispered.

“I'd give up every canvas and paint in the world for one more month with you,” she admitted, pressing his wrinkled palm to her cheek.

“Sunshine, we've already decided.” He smiled faintly — it was all the strength he had left. “No more sad thoughts. Do you really want this day to be remembered only for sorrow?”

“Because today is...”

“Our fifty-fourth anniversary.”

Five years earlier

“Doctor, are you absolutely, positively sure?” The elderly woman's voice was pleading as she addressed the young man in the white coat with the obligatory stethoscope around his neck.

Why do all doctors wear stethoscopes? Even oncologists, who have no use for them?

“I'm afraid so,” the oncologist shrugged. “Here are the scan results.”

“But chemotherapy... or radiation...”

“Not at his age,” the doctor shook his head. “Aggressive chemo would kill him faster than the cancer. And the metastases are spreading rapidly. I'm surprised he walked in here on his own — he must be in terrible pain. We can give him palliative care, slow the tumors' growth, but I doubt we can stop them completely.”

She swallowed hard.

“How long does he have?”

“Frankly...” The oncologist held the scan up to the light. “Two years. Three at most, if his body responds well to treatment. Unlikely to be longer.”

Tears traced thin, glistening paths down the cheeks of the small woman who had reached the verge of old age.

“What do I do, doctor? What do I do now? We've been together for almost half a century. Today is forty-nine years since we met. What do I do now?”

The doctor, who had only recently turned thirty-five, couldn't imagine fifty years of shared life, but he knew the answer to her question. It was one every MD heard sooner or later. Dermatologists and trichologists heard it less often, but they weren't exempt. Medical school had prepared him for this.

“You have very little time left together,” he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “So use it to love him. Cherish him. Bring him joy. Care for him. Give him your love. These are his last years, and the disease will kill him while causing unbearable pain. Try to make sure that when he stands at the threshold of eternity and looks back, he'll say your love mattered more than the pain. Make him happy.”

She sobbed.

“The years ahead will be hard,” the doctor continued. “The pain will likely make him irritable, short-tempered. The drugs he'll need to manage it may make him seem like a different person. But remember — inside, he's still the man you married, the man you love. Men struggle to admit they need help, and his own weakness may make him aggressive. He might lash out at you or himself. You may even have to place him under professional care — fortunately, the medical insurance from his former employer, Red Hook Enterprises, covers all of it, so money won't be an issue. It will be difficult. But don't let it stop you from loving him. You only have a few years left to cherish the man who's shared your life. Use them to the fullest. While he's still mobile, fulfill your shared dreams. Take a vacation. Gamble in a casino. Bask in the Florida sun. Go on a cruise. If he ever wanted to learn piano or guitar, buy them for him. This is your chance to show him how much he means to you.”

“He means everything,” she whispered through tears. “Everything.”

“Then use these years to know him, cherish him, love him,” the doctor said softly. “Take the chance to be with him. It's the last one you'll get.”

“How do I live without him?”

“That's a question only you can answer.”

She turned to the window, where the October wind tossed leaves battered by the first frost. What she really wanted to ask was, Why should I live without him? But no one could answer that.

Nine years earlier

“Sparky, are you finally ready? Reminder: our tickets are for today, not for Christmas Eve.”

“Coming!”

The man stood in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. A few years ago, he would've paced impatiently in front of the full-length mirror, but now his reflection — like his knees and back — wasn't what it used to be. The suit that had once fit perfectly was now loose in the chest and shoulders. At least the waist still fits. Maybe even a little too snugly.

“Is the taxi here yet?” came the voice from upstairs.

His body might be failing, but there were some constants in their life. He glanced at the old-fashioned watch on his wrist, briefly noting how easy it was to read the hands through the replaced glass — and how hard it had been to find a replacement glass for this particular Tissot model. His wife, still putting on the finishing touches at her vanity, was always exactly twenty-two minutes late. He had four more minutes to wait.

“Take your time. I only called the taxi five minutes ago, knowing you'd be delayed.”

She appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the second-floor bedrooms. In her shimmering blue dress, carrying a tiny clutch, she was simply breathtaking. A sapphire necklace glinted at her throat, diamond studs sparkled in her ears. One finger bore a delicate white band with a single tiny diamond.

“Oh!” He gave a half-bow. “You know what? I've changed my mind about going to the opera with you. You'll outshine even the prima donna. They'll write about us in the papers, every critic in town will gossip, and I'll never be able to show my face in public again.” She descended gracefully, hand on the railing.

“Don't worry, darling. I may be the most beautiful woman at the opera, but standing next to you will be all it takes to bring us right back down to mediocrity. So? The taxi?”

He smiled. His wife's wit remained timeless. His knees, sadly, did not.

“And where would you take me if I agreed to skipping the opera?”

“A nightclub, maybe?”

“Listen, we're well past sixty. What are we going to do in a crowd of young idiots shaking to music we don't understand?”

“Who's past sixty?! I feel like a very experienced twenty-year-old fool!”

“Any experienced twenty-year-old fool worth his salt should have no trouble doing forty push-ups.”

He eyed the floor skeptically. Outside the front door, a car with a green roof light pulled up.

“Experience tells this twenty-year-old fool that push-ups aren't much fun. So, the opera?”

“The opera. This year, let's celebrate our anniversary my way!”

She slipped into elegant ankle boots that matched her dress. Her husband draped a fur shawl over her shoulders.

“I thought you liked the celebration I arranged last year.”

“You mean when we watched Paris Saint-Germain vs. Barcelona at a sports bar, you drank too much cold beer, lost your voice, puked all over the counter, and I had to buy drinks for everyone you sprayed because you forgot your wallet? Then I had to pay also for your beer, which by the way was utterly disgusting, and to top it off, you caught a chill, got sick, and spent two weeks in bed sneezing so hard the china in the cabinet rattled? “Liked” doesn't quite cover it. It was unforgettable. I literally won't forget that anniversary till the day I die. This year, I'd like something pleasant for a change.”

“So would I. Shame our favorite show got canceled... I'd in a heartbeat trade these opera tickets for a night on the couch with you, — cozy, warm and going absolutely nowhere.”

She glanced into the mirror to check her dress and noticed a flicker of light behind her.

Turning, she saw a bright circle from the ceiling lamp reflected off his wristwatch, dancing across the wall as he rubbed his forehead. A spasm of pain twisted his face for a split second.

“You've been getting these headaches more often. You really should see a doctor.”

“I will. Hand me my coat — it's freezing out there.”

“Well, it is October.”

Fourteen years earlier

“Hey, are you coming?”

“Yeah, just a sec. Got some official-looking letter in here.”

His wife waited in the living room. Two armchairs sat side by side in front of the massive TV, frozen on the last frame of their favorite show's opening credits. He stood in the hallway, sorting through the day's mail piled on the entryway shelf. A sharp wind whistled through the mail slot, and he shifted from foot to foot, shivering. Amid the charity appeals, postcards from vacationing children, theater season announcements, an invitation to a Red Hook Enterprises retirees' gathering, and a few glossy ads, he found the electricity bill — which he immediately tucked into the corner of the hallway mirror so he wouldn't forget to pay it. Beneath it was a letter in an aggressively official-looking envelope. He fished reading glasses from his robe pocket, slit the envelope with a steel letter opener, and squinted at the dense bureaucratese jargon inside.

“Sunshine, remember our first apartment?”

“The one on the hill, with the neighbors obsessed with mowing the lawn at 6 AM?”

“No, that was the second. The first was on Bay View. Two bedrooms, a big living room with panoramic windows facing the ocean.”

“Oh, right. Gosh, that place was an icebox! No wonder I blocked it out. We should've known better — the insulation was garbage. I still remember that icy wind blowing straight from the bay into our living room. Even a volcano couldn't have warmed that place before May. Brrr! We both spent every winter dripping like faucets until some poor sucker rented the place for the view. What about it?”

He flipped the page, wading deeper into the legalese jungle.

“Looks like we just paid off the mortgage.”

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.”

“But I'm not Protestant,” she frowned. “To be honest, I'm not sure I even believe in God.”

“That's fine, neither does he,” he waved it off. “He says it doesn't matter if you believe in God — what matters is if He believes in you. My friend had a choice once: jail, the army, or the clergy. Figured black robes suited him better than stripes or camo. But he's officially ordained, and his certificate will be recognized in any state.”

“Wait. Are you proposing to me right now?” she asked cautiously, as if testing thin ice.

He lifted her easily from the chair and, ignoring the loud protest from their rickety bed, gently set her down. Dropping to one knee, he took her hands in his.

“You're my fiery little sun, lighting up every day of my life. I wake up thinking about how much you mean to me, and every evening I rush home just to see you again. I love you with all my heart, and I want to be with you — forever, if you'll have me. We've been together three years, and I only love you more with every passing day. Please, please, sunshine... will you marry me?”

He pulled a small black box from his pocket and opened it. She looked down at the thin metal band, a tiny diamond chip catching the light in a rainbow of colors.

“This must've cost you a fortune,” she said softly, slipping it onto her finger and admiring the tiny spark.

“Saved a few breakfasts,” he declared proudly. “And... I pawned my car.”

“Your "Volkswagen Beetle"?! That museum relic from '65, with the original upholstery that's never been cleaned, and a gas tank that leaks into the cabin every time you hit the brakes? No one would give you more than fifty bucks for that! Except maybe a scrap dealer — a blind one.”

“The ring cost seventy-two fifty,” he confirmed. “And they're letting me keep the car until the loan term's up. So... is that a yes?”

“After you proved I'm worth more to you than that pile of scrap? Of course it's a yes!” She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard. From the neighboring apartment came a burst of applause, followed by a cheerful shout: “Kiss the bride!” She broke the kiss just long enough to say:

“Hold on — I've got something for you too. I actually meant it for our anniversary, but now it qualifies as a wedding gift.” She wriggled free of his embrace, dove into the nightstand, and pulled out another small black box. He opened it reverently — and froze in awe.

“Wow... Tissot — with precision adjustment, date display, and even a moon phase tracker! Thank you, Sparky! This had to cost a fortune!”

“I haggled the salesman down thirty-eight percent before he threatened to call the cops on me for robbery. So no, not really. No ring for you, sorry — you'll have to wear this instead.” She snapped the metal band of the watch around his wrist. “The shackles of marriage' just got literal. And take good care of it — that's regular glass, easy to scratch or break. By the way, what time is it?”

He glanced at his brand-new watch.

“Almost three.”

“And how long does it take to get to your friend's church?”

“Forty minutes. Half an hour if the Beetle's starter behaves.”

“So, we've got an hour and twenty minutes,” she calculated. “A quick shower will take ten, drying off and getting dressed another twenty... Any ideas on how to spend the remaining fifty?”

Instead of answering, he swept her onto the bed.

From the apartment next door came a grumbling voice:

“At it again, huh?”

But the soon-to-be newlyweds didn't hear it.

Fifty-three years earlier

They sat at the bar, gazing into each other's eyes over half-filled beer steins. Each rested their chin on a fist, their other hands intertwined. He admired the golden flecks in her laughing eyes, the graceful line of her chin, the soft curve of her lips, and her thick red hair that seemed to capture every stray gleam of light. She basked in the love radiating from his gaze, letting her eyes wander through the unruly black hair he wore like a crown, and soaked in the open, unguarded love that filled his every glance. Somewhere in the background an amateur band struggled through a blues number, but for them, the world beyond each other simply had ceased to exist.

“Listen, Sparky,” he began, raising his stein. She noted that it hadn't even occurred to him to take his hand back from hers. “I just had the most brilliant idea.”

“Do tell,” she raised a playful eyebrow. “That's refreshing. You've got my full attention.”

“We've been dating for a whole year now,” he went on.

“Yep. Hence this very celebration.”

“I love you, and I've noticed you don't seem to hate me... Unless you're hiding it really well... Sunshine, how about we take the next step?”

“You've already met my parents.”

“And you've met mine! But that's not what I mean. I'm talking about moving in together. Trying this whole life-together thing for real.”

She fell silent. Despite her model-like beauty, behind that pretty face ticked a ruthless, high-speed supercomputer, analyzing facts at speeds engineers could only dream of. No wonder the aerospace faculty adored her — beautiful, brilliant, and every year she made the dean's list, consistently ranking in the top three percent of her class.

He mistook her silence for hesitation and rushed on:

“I'm graduating this year, and I'll finally get a real job — not just odd shifts bussing tables. You've got two years left. I'm finishing with honors, and I'm sure you will too. We'll get a tiny but cheap place to start — just a single room, frankly. I've got this realtor who promises me a real bargain. Imagine, he says that the apartment even has air conditioning! But he also claims we won't need it, even in the summer, so we'll save on the electric bill. We'll try living together — figure out the day-to-day stuff... I swear I'll squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom!”

She tossed her head, sending a red wave through her hair:

“Fine. I call the bed's window side. And if you forget to put the toilet seat down, I'll hang it around your neck.”

“Deal!” he practically shouted, convinced he could float right off the floor with joy. “Today is the best day of my life!”

“Of our lives,” she corrected, squeezing the hand she still held in hers.

They were young, blissful, brimming with ambition, and life stretched before them like an endless plain before the cavalry of Tamerlane — vast, wide open, and theirs for the taking, infinite paths branching in every direction. They could go anywhere; every road seemed to promise victory, because they were together, ready to support each other. They knew disappointments and sorrows would inevitably come, but accepted that truth philosophically — just like the October wind howling outside: the cold autumn rains, the November frosts, even January's biting sleet would come, but spring — full of warmth and that dizzying, intoxicating scent of new grass — would follow. Together, what couldn't they overcome?

Why, then the world's their oyster, which with sword they will open[1].

Last October

“I've caused you so much trouble,” the dying man whispered. “So much grief. I'm sorry... for every hurt I ever gave you.”

“Don't say that,” his wife leaned closer, her cheeks wet with tears. “It's true, you weren't always the perfect husband. But you made me happy. I've never been as happy as I was with you. All these years I was happy because you were with me, because you loved me. The rest is just noise. It doesn't matter. I was happy.”

“So was I,” he nodded, inhaling oxygen. “So was I.”

He moved his hand slightly. The old watch — the wedding gift from a lifetime ago — glinted on his wrist. She gently stroked his hand with hers, the thin gold band with its tiny diamond still shining faintly on her gnarled finger.

The wind, slipping into the room, made the guitar strings in the corner hum a soft, mournful note, and swayed the two framed diplomas on the wall, but stilled before touching the third frame.

“We lived a good life,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

“Indeed, a wonderful life,” she whispered through her tears.

“I'm proud you were my wife, Sparky. By the way, I suppose it's safe to ask now. What's the score on our tally? It's till two for me.”

The old woman tossed her head with the same motion that once sent waves through her red hair, and his heart ached at the sight, overwhelmed by tenderness.

“Two to one, my love. Two to one. All these years. Two to one.”

He squeezed her fingers gently — he had no strength left for more. Slowly, he turned his head to the window. The sky was darkening rapidly; only the highest mountain peaks still caught the last golden light.

“The sun's setting. I don't want to leave in darkness. It's time. ... My darling, could you... Please. I can't do it myself.”

Her heart breaking, her vision blurred with tears, she reached out with a trembling hand, flipped the safety cap, entered the code, and confirmed the final command twice. Another liquid began flowing through the IV into his vein.

“We've got about a minute left,” came his faint whisper. “Then I'll sleep. Thank you, my sunshine. You were everything to me. From here, you'll have to walk alone.”

She wanted to answer, but was terrified her voice would break and betray her grief. She couldn't bear the thought of him spending his last moments thinking of her pain. Panicking, she glanced around the room, and her eyes landed on the last frame, the one next to the diplomas. Behind its glass was a yellowed, nearly faded sheet of paper, its words barely legible.

He followed her gaze and smiled faintly with the shadow of the grin she'd have moved heaven and earth for.

“I'm so glad I wrote that letter,” she said.

“If you hadn't... I never would have become who I am. Thank you for that too. Goodbye.”

“No, thank you, my love. You answered it. Farewell. Rest easy... and dream of our best days.”

“Every day was our best.”

He smiled once more, then gently closed his eyes. His chest rose... once... again... and then fell still. The heart monitor emitted a monotone whine.

Without looking, she reached out and switched off the machines. For the first time in ages, the house fell utterly silent. And that silence tore through her more than the loudest, most unbearable scream. She released her husband's hand — it fell lifelessly to the sheet — and broke down in bitter sobs.

The mountain peaks outside faded. Night rushed over the world. The cold wind, sensing its newfound dominion, swept through the room again, rocking all three frames on the wall. As her sobs subsided, she could hear people moving in the next room. The grief counselor prepared to step in. There, too, waited children, grandchildren, surviving friends — including the minister who had married them — and medics ready to dismantle the equipment and tend to the deceased.

The widow took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the sobs back down into her chest. The room was growing dark with every moment. If she didn't turn on the lights, she could pretend he was only sleeping — deeply and peacefully. For a time, she would choose to believe that. Later, perhaps, she would pretend he'd gone on a business trip.

Slowly, she stood up, rubbed her aching back, and turned once more to that third frame, still gently swaying in the cold October breeze.

The letter. The one that had started it all.

Fifty-four years earlier

“Hi! I'm Jamie.”

She gave a quick, casual glance at the lad standing in front of her.

“Nice to meet you, Jamie.”

“I... uh... I'd like to take you out for coffee.”

She studied him more closely. Why was he being so direct? It was obvious he was flustered and had no idea what to do next.

“I live at Moon Street, 27.” he blurted. “You sent me a letter. You know, the one where you said you thought I was nice and you wouldn't mind going out with me sometime. At first, I thought it was a joke, but then I figured... Even if it was, what do I have to lose by asking?”

Ah, she thought, finally understanding.

Billy the Bounder — the dream of every girl in the neighborhood — roared around on a motorcycle, strummed his guitar like a rock star, and had a smooth, velvet baritone that made every girl's heart float straight up to heaven. Girls flocked around him like sparrows, and Billy the Bounder took full advantage. Not wanting to be just another conquest, she'd decided to play it smarter, to stand out from the crowd of fluttering eyelashes. She wrote a letter confessing her attraction. Surely Billy didn't get many letters, she reasoned over the stationery.

The letter had turned out vague and non-committal — she didn't want Billy thinking she was too easy. She hadn't mentioned the motorcycle or the guitar either, because she didn't want to seem shallow. Finally, the letter was addressed simply to “you” because “Dear Billy” felt premature, and she hated the nickname “Bounder.” And somehow, she'd failed to notice how generic the text was. This letter could just as easily have been meant for any guy in the neighborhood.

Billy the Bounder lived at 27 Noon Street.

The mailman had delivered the letter to 27 Moon Street.

The return address was real. Tracking down the sender was easy. It was meant to.

And now Jamie was standing in front of her, completely convinced that she found him attractive and had agreed to a date in advance — if only he had the courage to ask.

She looked him over again. Actually... he was kind of cute — tall, well-built, with open, honest face. His tousled thick black hair suggested infrequent brushes, but his teeth were straight and white, so hygiene wasn't neglected. His jeans were worn at the knees, and his battered leather jacket had clearly seen better days — definitely not a rich boy, which meant he probably wouldn't act like he owned the world. He had a car key dangling from his fingers with the VW logo on the keychain. Probably not a gift — the keychain was too scratched, the key itself worn as well — meaning he'd bought the car himself for his hard-earned money and was proud enough to flaunt it. He probably thought it scored him some extra points. Well... it did. His knuckles weren't bruised or scarred — so he wasn't the brawler type. And the way he was blushing! How utterly charming!

All in all, a very promising specimen. Not quite Billy the Bounder, of course... but if you cleaned him up, put him in some decent clothes, and taught him a few chords on the guitar...

She tossed her head, sending a wave through her red hair. “Sure. Let's go to a café. I'm Nora, but everyone calls me Sparky.”

And for a moment his smile turned October into July.

[1] W. Shakespeare, "The Merry Wives of Windsor".