Heroic Measures (continued)

It helped. The empty space with his abdomen seemed to shrink. It would not last, he knew, but it comforted him for now.

Just one, he instructed himself. Just one. More than that would not help, he knew, and would probably make it even worse.

He leaned back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the darkly polished table before him. What they saw there, reflected in the amber-yellow light, was another table from another place, at another time.

The candlelight flickered before them in the dim light of the restaurant. He had saved for more than two months for this evening: preparing his own lunches, watching the sales more carefully, clipping an uncounted number of coupons . . . even cutting out the scotch. It had been worth it already, even before they had arrived, by the astonished look in Abigail’s eyes when he had presented her with the theater tickets and a handwritten note with the dinner reservations.

She stared back at him with bright eyes. He smiled, remembering how she had cradled the tickets in her hands, as if they were crafted from a precious metal or the finest crystal. He had never been particularly fond of live theater, preferring motion pictures instead. The difference really was not all that great, he had decided once, but that rationalization had not really helped to increase his appreciation for the stage.

It had not been about he had wanted, though. It was what she wanted—what she deserved. After spending ten years by his side, bearing him two fine sons, she was still the lifelong companion that he could not imagine ever being without. Ten years had not changed that for him.

She had reached across that table then, to softly touch his hands. Her fingertips, smooth and supple, brushed along the fine hairs along the back of his hands, sending a tingle up along his forearms that he felt even in the hairs along the back of his neck.

Walter opened his eyes and he was alone at the table. The chair across from him was empty, as it would be now for forever more.

She never really liked this place anyway . . .

He had brought her here a few times, but she always seemed uncomfortable, as if she was somehow intruding on sacred ground. He had tried to reassure her, but she never quite managed to be easy when they were there together. Eventually, he had stopped trying, even considering no longer coming himself. She had told him, though, that she did not mind if he continued his visits, In fact, she had appeared to be glad for him, pleased that he had this small ritual of his own. He had guessed that, in a way, it was not all that different from her weekly manicures. It was one of the few ways in which she indulged herself. This was, he surmised, her way of giving him the same.

He sipped once again at the scotch, hearing the ice chime against the glass. Diluted now, it burned even less as it went down past his tongue and into his throat. He found the sensations surprisingly reassuring. He had feared that his life might lose its flavor now that Abigail was no longer in it. The flavors of the scotch told him otherwise.

Turning toward the window, Walter watched as man struggled to retain his hat, telling him that the wind had picked up. It did not appear to be raining yet, but the steel-gray cast to the air told him that it was imminent.

He drained the last of the scotch and placed the glass back onto the now-damp napkin. Tucking a twenty-dollar beneath the glass, he rose, tightened his coat around him, and headed for the door. Staring upward, he paused outside, watching for a moment as clouds the color of dark ash churned across the sky. He felt the first light drops touch his face.

His head down, hunched into the heavy collar of his overcoat, Walter headed back to his car. The rain begin to fall more quickly now, leaving a path ahead as if someone had scattered old coins before him on the sidewalk.

It’s not surprising, he thought, that the angels would weep today . . . even if Abigail is now among them.