“Hm?”
“I won’t be around forever.”
Buries his nose in her hair, now, at 40, streaked with silver. Tries to ignore her. “D’you think Nate finally finished his degree?”
Looks at him with pain in her eyes, and he pulls her closer. “Promise me something.”
He dreads her demand, but he could never refuse her anything. “What?”
“You’ll move on. Don’t turn into Scott.”
He inhales deeply, imprinting her scent in his memory. “I won’t.” Doesn’t specify. Maybe he’ll be able to move on. Maybe he won’t. Moving on means forgetting. Forgetting her would mean dying. “I won’t.”
discovery about a young woman
Next day's subdued farewell: she standing there
Cool on the threshold, coolly looked at too
When I observed a grey strand in her hair
And found I could not bring myself to go.
Silent I took her breast, and when she wondered
Why I, who'd been her guest that night in bed
Was not prepared to leave as we had said
I looked her straight between the eyes and answered:
It's only one more night that I'll be staying
But use your time; the fact is, you've provoked me
Standing poised on the threshold in that way.
And let us speed up what we've got to say
For both of us forgot that you're decaying.
With that my voice gave out, and longing choked me.