Really Old Lady folds her arms, decided. “If he’d stuck with Rosaline, became a one-man woman, he’d have been better off. Perhaps he even would have stayed alive.”
Baldy makes a noise, like a phwar. “You’re not suggesting Romeo should have forfeited his true love and settled for second-best in order to add a few more years to his clock? Time is important only if you’ve found the right person to spend it with. Romeo was better off having the love of his life for a few days than fifty years with the wrong gal.”
The conversation has a lot of participants, and it is moving pretty fast. But, using tremendous concentration, I manage to follow. And I find myself nodding to Baldy’s comment. The day I left Aiden was the day my diagnosis was confirmed. With time being cut so suddenly short, another day in the wrong relationship was simply too much.
“I hate to say it,” I say, “but I agree with him.”
Young Guy’s hand continues to stroke mine, and I realize he’s been silent. Southern Lady must notice, too, because she asks, “What do you think, Luke?”
Luke! I say it in my head three times. Luke. Luke. Luke.
Luke is typically thoughtful, taking a moment and shifting in his seat before he speaks. “I th-think,” he says, looking directly at me, “that it all became pointless when they decided to kill themselves.”
18
Tonight, when Young Guy walks me to my door, I feel distracted.
“Are … you…?” he asks at my door.
“I’m okay,” I say. I don’t need to ask what he means anymore; usually I just know. His comment plays in my mind on repeat. “It all became pointless when Romeo and Juliet decided to kill themselves.” I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if the fact that they died changed what they shared when they lived.
A few months ago, presented with the knowledge that life wasn’t going to be what I’d planned, I wanted to check out, close the book. But now, it’s like suddenly I’ve found a few more pages. And it feels like, against all likelihood, the last chapter might be the best one of all. The last chapter, in fact, might be something great.
“U-upstairs?” he says.
I reach for Luke’s hand and it slides into mine: a perfect fit. “I have a better idea,” I say, and pull him into my room.
*
The last time I had sex was the night I left my husband. I packed my bags while he was at work and loaded most of them into the car. The furniture, the mementos, everything except my clothes was his to keep—where I was going, I wouldn’t need them. Then I waited in the hallway, sitting on a suitcase.
Aiden arrived home at the usual time. The door jammed on my suitcase as he flicked on the light. “Hey,” he said, “what are you doing?”
“Leaving you,” I said.
Aiden continued hooking his coat on the hall tree. “Oh yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “You seem to be taking it well.”
He turned, taking in my suitcase and somber expression. “You’re … serious?”
I’d never threatened to leave him before, but we had a certain way of talking, a light way, that made everything seem like a joke. As I held his gaze and nodded, realization dawned.
“Shit, Anna.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I know we have problems but—”
“I have Alzheimer’s.”
There I went again, dropping a bombshell. Somehow it helped me feel in control of this conversation and I wanted to be in control of something.
“Seriously?” Aiden sank to his knees. “Oh God. I’m … I’m so sorry.”
We’d talked briefly about the possibility early in our relationship, but never since. Aiden was like me—if there was something unpleasant to be thought about, he found something else to do.
“But … you’re leaving? Now?”
Admittedly, it didn’t make much sense. Many people would have stuck in a failing relationship upon the diagnosis of a terminal illness, but I was not most people. The only way I knew to deal with this was to leave. And though he never said so, I suspected Aiden was relieved.
I drove straight to the bar. A cliché thing to do, but I was too thirsty to care about cliché. And, as it turned out, I only had to pay for one drink.
I don’t remember the guy’s name, though I blame the Jack Daniel’s rather than the Alzheimer’s. I do remember the scramble of hands and clothes—the fevered desperation to be free of my clothing. I remember the gravel in the parking lot rolling under his feet as he pinned me against the cold brick wall. I remember the bliss and agony of being ridden by a stranger who didn’t care a thing about me. I remember the awkward aftermath of rising zippers and buttoning shirts.
Afterwards, the bartender called me a cab.
“Where to?” the cabdriver asked, hanging his arm over the back of the bench seat. I rattled off my address and dozed on the way home, drunk and spent and sore. When I got home, Aiden looked up from the sofa and stared at me as though I were a ghost.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I’d said, headed for the fridge. “I live here.”
Aiden made me a bed on the sofa that night. And the next day, I had to leave all over again.