The Empty Jar(18)

“In case you want to join me,” she adds, throwing a wink over her shoulder and wiggling that curvy little ass at me.

Of course, I would never turn down an invitation like that. Definitely not now, now when I need to have her close to me, when I need to be close to her more than ever.

But I also know better than to follow her right in. She’ll need a minute of private time first. Lena’s shy when it comes to things like that. And I’ve always respected her need for space.

As the seconds tick by, I listen to her hum, wondering over her elevated mood. As she slept, I counted her every deep, even breath and tried to imagine my life without her. I’ve never, not once, not even after being given the news about her terminal condition, been able to picture what my existence would be like without her in it. Most of the time, I don’t even want to try. She is the love of my life. She always has been, and I have no doubt that she always will be.

Till death do us part.

Death might part our bodies, but it will never part our hearts, our souls. Our love. Love like ours doesn’t die. It will live long after Lena leaves me. I’ll never be free of it.

And I don’t want to be.

I keep wondering if she’s going to have “the talk” with me, the one where she tells me to find someone else, to remarry, to be as happy as I can be. I dread it. God, how I dread it! And I’ve already rehearsed my answer. I’m going to be honest with her. She deserves that much. I’m going to tell her that I have no interest in finding someone else, or even looking. I feel like it would be unfair to every other woman on the planet to be compared to Lena. And that’s what would happen. I would hold them all up against the light of her memory, and they would pale in comparison, like the paper-thin sheers Lena has hanging over the windows in the sunroom. All I would be able to see when I look at any of them would be my wife.

There are a dozen reasons I dread “the talk” and will do everything in my power to put it off as long as possible. But on days like today, when she’s gone from feeling so bad to feeling so much better, I dread it even more. When she’s so happy and seemingly healthy, it’s like having my old Lena back. Lena B.D., the one from Before Diagnosis. Seeing her this way—bright eyes, shining smile—makes it that much harder to think about life after her. Without her. I just can’t bear to discuss it. Because I know deep in my heart that there won’t be life after her.

No life of any consequence anyway.

“You coming?” Lena’s muffled voice calls from within the bathroom.

Shaking off my melancholy, I head in her direction. She will never have to ask me twice.

********

Lena



For the rest of my life, as short as it will likely be, I will think of our first real evening in Rome as one of the most romantic nights of my entire life.

It began with a shower for two. Nate insisted that I recline against the cool marble shower wall while he shampooed my hair, shaved my legs, and washed me from head to toe. It was the washing that ended up getting out of hand. Functional became worshipful, laughs became moans, and caresses became kindling to a fire that seemed ever-ready to burn out of control.

Nate made love to me in the warm spray of the water, kissing me for long minutes as if he was memorizing the interior of my mouth, a moist topographical map to his own personal heaven. When I rested limply in his arms, caught between his chest and the shower wall, my beautiful husband held me up as he started all over, washing me with his free hand. By the time we got out, my skin was tingly and sensitive and attractively flushed, if I do say so myself.

Nate hasn’t stopped smiling. He said he loves that he can still affect me that way. And who am I to argue? I do, too!

I know it won’t last forever, that I won’t always feel like making love with my husband. That’s why I want to enjoy him now. As much as I can.

From the first time Nate put his hands on me, on my naked skin, he’s had this ability to transport me to a place where nothing else exists. Just him and me and the extraordinary love we share. Even now, with so much sadness closing in on us, he can still whisk me away to that paradise. With a glance, with a kiss. With a touch.

And I’ll let him.

As often as he wants to, I’ll let him.

While he’s still mine, and I’m still his.

Once I’m dressed in a black silk tank dress and stilettos (stilettos that set us back another couple of hours when my robust husband saw them), Nate escorts me out of our hotel and down the street. We stroll leisurely along via Condotti, dipping into Cartier and Gucci, then into La Perla, where Nate stops at a breathtakingly delicate silk organza nightgown.

“Do you like this?” he asks, fingering the material.

“I’m a woman. I have eyes. This is La Perla. So yes, I like it.” My smile is light, my voice playful. I’m careful to keep it just so. No matter what.

“Sos this is good stuff?”

“Good stuff?” I snort. “Did you look at the price tag? This is exquisite stuff.”

“You are exquisite stuff. And I’m going to buy this for you.”

“If you want to see me in lingerie, just ask. I have all of that slutty stuff Nissa packed me.” I grin at the thought. Nissa’s tastes are…diverse. In her closet, you can find anything from a French maid costume to assless chaps and from cut-off denim to Prada.