“…I know I could be spending too much time with you, but time and too much, don’t belong together as we do…” Brandie Carlie’s song blasted in his left ear for the thirtieth time that evening.
He usually did not listen to music on auto-repeat, but somehow this was a an appropriate time to start.
“…I am gonna die the same day as you…” The gentle hand he was holding squeezed his like it did every single time the song got to that part, as if trying to remind him of their impending death.
The cold winter wind blew into his face, carrying the occasional pallets of sand even though they stood 10 stories above the tiled pavement below. The night had a special kind of blackness. The moon had taken its occasional quarter off, leaving the stars to dominate the pitch black of the freezing August evening.
“Did you know that by some of the stars we are seeing today died millions of years ago, but the light they emitted all those years ago is just getting to us?” he asked, almost expecting an answer.
“Mmmmh…” she replied with a shrug, almost like she was politely telling him to shut up.
He was a compulsive talker. More often than not, especially when he wasn’t supposed to, he would make a comment or try and diffuse what he saw as an awkward situation with an unrelated, totally out of the blue statement, that more often than not would ruin a moment. She, on the other hand, lived inside her head, not letting a thought out of the fortress before she really thought about it.
That was not where their differences ended. He was a dog person, she preferred cats. A night out clubbing was always his go to weekend plan, she would always rather snuggle up in bed with hot coffee and a book. They were essentially opposites, yet somehow, against everybody’s expectations, they had been together for eight years now.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?” she let out her first complete statement of the evening.
“Like I would let you have all the fun all by yourself…” he smirked sarcastically. “This is the one promise I am happy to keep, unlike always washing the dishes. I always hated that…” The slight giggle confirming that the joke got the desired effect.
They met at this same hospital rooftop eight years prior. She was fresh from receiving news of her father’s death. Alzheimer’s. He had struggled with it almost all her life, and to be frank, she did not even remember the man without the disease. She had loved her father, after all he was her father, but his death had somewhat left her confused. She did not know how to feel. On the one hand, her father was gone forever, on the other, so had the responsibility of taking care of a man who did not remember who she was fifty percent of the time.
As her family mourned downstairs besides her father’s deathbed, she found her way, almost instinctively to the rooftop, maybe because she really needed to get high.
He was seated on the ledge, whisky bottle in hand, God’s answer to her unuttered prayer.
She sat next to him, instantly feeling the connection even without a word spoken, like her misery talked to his. He handed her the bottle, which she immediately grabbed and pressed the opened nozzle, letting the bitter liquid burn its way down her throat for the first time. Not long after that, after a few more sips of the amber acid, she opened up to him, crying uncontrollably, the walls she had build all her life tumbling one by one.
He was a perfect gentleman. He held her and let her sob into his chest when she grew too emotional to talk, and listened to every word she said without interrupting when she could. He whispered words of encouragement and all the sweet nothings, offering to be her shoulder to cry on , whenever she needed one.
When the sun emerged from the clouded eastern hemisphere the next morning, they found themselves holding to one another, none of them willing to let go. She had no idea what had brought him up there, but she could not have thanked the gods any more than she did.
Now, eight years after that evening, they stood by the ledge of the hospital roof. She had just been diagnosed with her father’s disease. This did not come as a surprise. She always had a chance of getting the hereditary disease.
So, they stood on the edge of the now sad roof, bottle of whisky a sip or two away from being emptied. She would not let the people she loved have to go through what her family went through with her father, and he would not let her do this alone. After all, he could not live without her.
As if in perfect synchrony, the stared ten stories down to the tiled pavement, after he took the final sip of the Scottish beverage…
“… on the golden gate bridge I’ll hold your hand and howl at the moon… and I ain’t scared, coz I am never gonna miss you…
He looked into her eyes one last time, giving her hand a not so gentle squeeze.
“I belong to you…”
She moved in to kiss him, their lips interlocking almost at the same time as the weakened tiles below gave way, sending them into the ten story descend.
Image Credits: Pexels
Hey Fam… 🙂
It has been a little while. I have had a little problem with ‘writer’s block’, plus it has been a busy couple of weeks. Thank you for the messages, DMs, texts, calls during this time. Happy to be back.
I also wanted to thank you all for the support during the BAKE Awards those many moons away… You are amazing and I love you all… 🙂