Part 6

He turned to her. They felt each other’s breath. Their eyes met, and their boundaries vanished. There were no relationships to protect, no careers to focus on, no children to favour, no social expectations to fulfill. Simply, no life tasks were left to master. They earned their lives. They earned their first kiss. It was soft and cautious, curious, calm, and joyful. Their lips separated. All the moments of their lives came to this one, where their hearts beat as one and poured infinite peace and hope into one another, and where their spirits smelled the earth after rain. It was all right there, waiting to be taken.

Clara pulled away and looked around.

“I… I can’t. I’m sorry.” She stood up, grabbed her coat and purse in a rush.

Ethan looked at her intently.

“I’m… I don’t know. I want this, but I can’t do this,” she said, put her hand on his shoulder without looking at him. “I’m… confused. It’s too early. I’ll… I’ll call you,” she said with tearful eyes, and rushed out the door. At forty-eight, it’s as hard to fall in love as it is to take the leap into trust.

Then one evening a text message arrived.

“Hi, Ethan. It’s Clara. How are you?”

He replied, and she called.

They talked through the night. First night, they talked about his work, travel, girlfriends, and parents; and about her marriage, children, and health scares. Other nights they talked about old movies, and new TV shows. She chose Die Hard as the best action movie of all time over Terminator 2: Judgment Day, because Alan Rickman was the superior villain to T1000; and he chose The Apartment as the best romantic movie because of all time over When Harry Met Sally, because of Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine being, well, Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. The argument could never be settled. He laughed at her taste in music, and she was horrified about his taste in Japanese horror. They discovered they both liked James Lee Burke crime novels, and they both loved sushi, garlic pasta, and caramel ice cream.

They met in a bookstore coffee shop when he was back in the city. They sent Christmas cards and birthday emails. He mailed postcards from London and Brussels, Kyoto and Shanghai, Jakarta and Sydney.

They would argue about many topics they knew nothing about, and they would get loud, and then one of them would laugh.

“Why the hell are you laughing?”

“Do you realize neither of us knows anything about this?”

They both laughed, and they laughed often.

2019

He waited for her with two cups of coffee. When she came, she was distracted, and sat down reluctantly.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve been scouted for a new job as Chief Curator.”

“Wow. That’s amazing news. Congratulations.”

“Yes, congratulations,” she said absentmindedly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the Lumerelle Gallery. It’s in L.A.”

“Wow. That’s…” he said with hesitant realization that it would put the continent between them. “That’s great.”

She grabbed his hand.

“Why don’t you come with me? You travel for a living, anyway. What does it matter where you board a flight? We can give it a real shot this time.”

“You waited thirty-four years to ask me that? That’s some slow play, I tell you.” He joked, but this time it was his eyes that welled with tears. “It’s my mom. Her dementia is getting worse. I can’t uproot her routines. I’m actually shifting from events to in-house translation. I’ll be working in the office starting next year.”

“I can’t believe it. I spent my life here while you were gone. And now, I must go, and you must stay. Our timing is just such a bitch.” She chuckled tearfully.

They held hands and cried.