Skip to content

Claire Preston

Sitting here, looking at my handsome man with his broad shoulders, his thick dark wavy hair, I run my fingers through his quiff, although this time I don’t have sticky fingers from all the Brylcreem he used to use. The memory of Old Spice re-enters my nostrils, overpowering the scent of antiseptic. I remember the first time we met. He walked across the dance floor and he held out his hand to me. I felt like I floated into his arms across the ballroom as the local orchestra played. That was the dance where he whispered into my ear that he will marry me one day and have not two but three children, and he was right.
            Closing my eyes, I start to hum the Viennese Waltz in time to the bleep of the heart-monitoring machine. I ignore the mechanical coldness within the doctor’s voice telling me it’s time to turn off Bobby’s ventilator as he will not regain consciousness after having multiple strokes. The doctor thinks eighty-seven is a good age to die. I disagree. No age is a good age to die. Bobby was my life-partner. We cared for each other, picked each other up when one of us was down, physically and emotionally. We knew what the other one was thinking, without any words.
            Placing my head upon his masculine chest, I twist my fingers through his curly chest hair. Still humming, I synchronise my heartbeat and breathing to his as I see him stood there before me. He takes my hand and I stare into his deep green eyes as they look lovingly back into mine. We start to dance around the room, dancing through anyone and anything in our way. Just as the tempo starts to slow and before the final long sustained note plays, we stop. He kisses my lips, then my hand and spins me out, as we take our final bows together. Leaving the ballroom arm in arm, we take our last breath as we have once again become one.