Nereids and Neptune (standard:romance, 940 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Jul 24 2006	Views/Reads: 3630/2335	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The only way to forget love is to find it again. Two years after the death of his wife, Tom heads back to California.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Hey, com'on, it'll be nice to leave the island and still call somewhere
home. I'm all for it, it was a great idea, honey.” 

“We'll never leave it; Tobermoray, I mean, this will always be our real
home. Promise?” 

He pulled her toward him. 

“I promise. I couldn't leave the island, Katherine, it's in my blood and
it's in yours.” 

“Anywhere you are, that's my home. I love you.”  She ran her index
finger under his chin and kissed his forehead. 

“Okay, everything's in the car. America here we come!” 

*************** 

The moon slid its way through a universe of faraway stars, heading for
the California treetops, and shining a path on the ocean. Driving 
through the gate, a crunch of stones under the tyres, he gently stops 
the car and turns off the headlights.  The first time they'd stood 
here, looking out between the ocean and the moon, she had cried with 
joy. 

“Do you think, at night, the moon misses the sun?” He recalled asking
her. 

“Not as much as I miss you when you go away.” She said, holding fast his
arm and resting her head on his shoulder. 

“This is a new start, Katherine. That part of my life is finished.” 

She said nothing, but wiped away the tear falling down her cheek. 

He isn't aware how long he has sat in the car, or how many times he's
swept away the wetness of recalling. The moon's glow, caught up in 
those moments of endless shimmering, the boundless mystery of water, 
and Katherine's death are all things he had no control over. 

Tom finally enters the house and flicks a light switch, then again, and
then in quick succession before muttering a profanity. He moves 
uneasily, accidentally kicking the leg of a chair, a moment that 
immediately transports him to the frequent times when they were bathed 
in candlelight. A penalty willingly paid for living remotely. Tom 
Champion stands motionless; letting his imagination smell the women he 
loved, picking out the scent of her, the warm and sweet smell of 
lotions and perfumes and the strange sticks that held mascara. 

Somewhere, he knows, are candles, and as his eyes accept the darkness he
goes there. It was just like her to think that candles and matches 
should hang out together. He lights the wick, waits a few moments, and 
tips hot wax onto the table before standing the candle amid its 
cooling. The wheat-yellow walls flicker with light, familiar shapes 
heighten his already hurting senses.  He sits down, rests his arms on 
the table, lowers his head, and weeps uncontrollably. 


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