*****
"Turning the Corner"
Don Bentley
The deceptively soft tones of the travel alarm jolted the sleeping woman awake. She turned off the alarm, and, still befuddled, reached over to wake....
No one.
"Damn," the quiet curse was no less heartfelt for all of its soft, and resigned delivery.
She had come to loathe mornings. To hate and dread those first
few moments when the narcotic effects of sleep would confound her memory.
That is, until with long practiced movement evolved from a lifetime's need
to rouse a notoriously sound sleeper, she would encounter anew her lonely
bed.
At first it hurt so much that she wept each morning. It still
hurt, though time had softened some of the pain, but not enough, not nearly
enough.
Her one daily prayer was that it never would.
Seven months, eleven days; two hundred twenty five days alone.
She knew that counting the days was not healthy. She knew that, and had tried to stop, but after forty-three years together it was impossible not to count each and every day without her, without Willow.
Tara hated mornings.
She got up and crossed the hotel room to the bathroom. Her movements were still graceful, still strong enough to allow her to ignore the aches in her hips and knees.
Arthritis, her impossibly young doctor had told her, still mild considering your age.
Not very diplomatic either.
As always her morning ablutions were swift and efficient. Shoulder length silver hair needed, and got, little attention.
Her clothing was bright and of a simple cut that was now more than a little old fashioned. As a young woman she had smiled at those elderly women who would affect outdated clothing. Now she understood both the need for the familiar, and the power of independence that accrued with age.
"When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple." The lovely old quote had caught her eye years ago, and had given her, given them both, a very fine model for dealing with the passing years.
A quiet knock on the door sounded just as she was finishing dressing.
'Punctual as promised,' she thought, as for the first time that day, a smile brightened her face.
Michael, another impossibly young man, had promised to meet her and escort her to the day's meeting.
"Come in, Michael," invited Tara as she unlatched and opened the door.
Michael bowed formally before entering the room. His Old World manners had charmed Tara the moment that he had met her at the airport with the announcement that he was her guide, and that any and all duties she would see fit to assign would be both his great pleasure, and his solemn duty before God Himself. A doctoral candidate in ancient history at the University he was a close aide of the local Watcher, herself a librarian, as was only to be expected.
"Thank you, Doctor Rosenberg. I trust that you are well this morning?"
"Yes, Michael. Yes I am, thank you. Now, if you could please hand me that sweater, we can go and meet this new Slayer of ours."
*****
Budapest in early spring. Blossoms filled the air with their perfume mingling with the faint scent of the nearby Danube, and the smells of cooking throughout the Old Quarter as bakers and cooks prepared the day's first meal.
A native of the city, Michael kept up a lively narrative on its people, and places, its history, and scandals as they walked the close set and cobble stoned streets.
Pulling her sweater tight against the cool, but pleasant morning air, Tara listened to the young man's stories. She had taken an instant liking to Michael. He reminded her so strongly of Xander at that age, after he had found his purpose and before the tragedy. As Michael went on about an uncle of someone's, she had missed that part, a tobacconist with his own shop not far from the hotel she could see Xander driving Giles to distraction as he joked about some imminent apocalypse, or just his latest "get rich quick" scheme.
'Enough sadness for one day, girl,' Tara thought as her memories of their first real loss threatened to surface.
"Doctor Rosenberg?"
With a start she realized that she had slowed almost to a halt, and that Michael, concern writ large on his face, had had to backtrack a couple of paces.
"I'm fine, Michael. Really."
He did not look convinced, but was prepared to accept her at her word, and so gestured around the corner, "Ms Wyndham and Lenore are in the cafe, just down this street."
Tara touched his cheek, moved by his concern, and was about to reassure him that she was not in fact that old, when they turned the corner.
He was just standing there. Waiting.
He was turned away from her, but it was him, she could see that at once. He started, as if feeling her eyes on him, and turned, his face brightening as he smiled. He looked straight into her eyes, and recognition was immediate his smile grew brighter.
Terrible realization dawned scant seconds later.
Oz stepped forward into Tara's arms, where the tears came easily to them both.
Now, he, too, was alone.