Tomorrow The orange colour of the evening sky brought a grin to the old man's face as he walked through the alleyways that snaked like a maze around his home. Despite the pain in his stomach, which several times forced him to stop and sit, he was happy - he would do it tonight. Anticipation be damned. He grimaced slightly after the next pang - maybe a smoke would help. He nodded to himself as his gray eyes searched for a place to pack and light his pipe, sheltered from the cool autumn wind. Finding nothing in the corrugated, beige canyon of garage doors that were the alley, he sighed, and resigned himself to pitting his match’s flame against the wind. A faint smile crept to his lips as he pulled the round, blue tin from his left jacket pocket. Like the now violet sky, he felt the gray-blue colour of the tin an apt reflection of his mood; however, his smile turned to a grimace as he opened the lid. A scent not unlike that of rotted, wet leather invaded his nostrils, and for a moment, this minor displeasure distracted him from matters he had promised to resolve that evening. Still wearing traces of a frown, he placed the black, chewed pipe-stem in his mouth. Slowly, he tested the draw. Satisfied that the bowl was well packed, he struck a Red Bird match, cupped a protective hand around the flame, and then dipped the small torch into the sea of tobacco that awaited it. Coaxing the pipe to life with gentle draws from his mouth, he read the caption on the tobacco tin’s lid. “Dunhill Nightcap: A rich flavoured smoking mixture for the evening, with its period of relaxation and leisure.” Relaxation and leisure? Shoving the tin into his right pocket, his fingers were met with the worn leather of an old phonebook, where they lingered for a moment. Not likely, with thoughts such as these. His stomach gurgled in agreement. This feeling of sickness was an unusual problem, coming so rarely that he had begun to consider its visits an event. Thinking back over the years, there were only a few instances that had brought on this feeling of nausea. His unshaven face smiled a broad grin at the memory of that first time, despite the now fierce wind which, having failed to thwart his pipe-lighting, angrily attacked his face. Oblivious to this, he indulged the memories. The little phone book had been new, when like a youth getting sick for the first time, he had vehemently sworn off the source of his illness while at the peak of its torturous embrace. Such pain! But when the feeling had subsided, and he had lived in peace for some time, he awoke one morning feeling that he needed it again. It was a light, although sometimes obscured, that gave hope to the dark tunnel that was his life - now if it would only let him get this night’s task over with. The old bridge creaked as he crossed over it, and despite the fishy smell of seaweed, his pipe smoke parched tongue ached, and cracked for want of water - any water. The pangs in his stomach were becoming less severe now, and finding that he could think clearly again, he let his thoughts drift back to the second time he had felt this sickness. He had been a college man then, still had his figure, and hair that had yet to be touched by frost. He had known how to make people smile, and always had a good joke to tell, but despite this - or, perhaps because of this - he had fallen ill again. The thoughts were slightly muddled now, and he could never remember which came first - but at some point, either before or after, his words had begun to sound hollow, and his clever gestures to look meaningless. He had tried to ride it out, and even pretend that he was the master of the situation - dyed his hair black to make a show of what he was feeling - but all this was in vain. And it was all because in the same manner as he had done the first time, he had flirted with the sickness, but never engaged it fully. After all, he was but a young man, and still had many years ahead of him. There was no need to commit now. Maybe tomorrow he would feel like it, and then he’d call. He still had all the time in the world. Walking up the trail from the bridge, he paused for a moment, and looked back at the lit path behind him - he could make it home in time now, if he hurried. A damp hand played with the phone book in his pocket. Sweat darkened his temples. Blood hummed in his ears, and for a split second, he thought he was going to lose his dinner after all. Bracing himself, clenching his stomach muscles, he stepped towards the bridge - and then turned away from the light. Never back, always forward - no regrets - forward, into the black forest’s embrace A sharp pain almost toppled the frail, shabbily dressed figure, knocking what few coherent thoughts he had out of his head. Now, the tears of nostalgia were replaced by tears of pain. Slowly, with difficulty, he dragged his tired body to a park bench near an old lamp post. Despite the old, black paint flaking off its metallic skin, the street lamp still managed to flicker a faint orange glow onto the bench. A thought flittered across his mind - almost like the lamp in Narnia. But this was no fantasy, he thought to himself, although of late he wasn’t so sure anymore. No. This was a real, gut-wrenching affliction... It was getting late, and he knew he would never make it back in time to use the telephone that evening. So what if there was no resolution tonight - at the very least, his stomach would finally be calmed, and maybe he could even catch some sleep. Slowing down, he turned to head back. Only then did he realize that, lost in his thoughts, he had wandered far down the forest path. Alone now in the inky blackness of the night, the stars hidden behind a canopy of trees, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years: fear. And it was so cold. *** She sat by the telephone that night as the last of her hopes burned out. Three times she, with great effort, stood and made her way to the wall where the phone jack was. Slowly and painfully, she kneeled down and rattled the jack, making sure it was plugged in all the way. The last time, she even unplugged the wire, and, pushing forward her bookcase, squeezed her old, dry hand into the gap to plug the phone into another wall jack. Maybe the other one was broken. Her brother’s children had bought her a portable, “Panasonic” phone last Christmas, but although she had let them plug it in, she never used it. She liked her old, black, rotary telephone. She remembered first learning how to use it as a little girl; listening with anticipation as she heard the soothing, whirling sound of the dial being turned, and feeling a small rush accompany her shy, open-eyed expression as she heard the voice on the other end say, “Hello?” Truly, this was a thing of magic, that could bring people from so far away together at the turn of a dial. The old wooden wall clock struck one, its chime calling her out of the past. She looked at her phone and sighed. Feeling a lump swell up in her throat, she blinked and swallowed hard. The clock was old - it had been a double gift at a wedding many years ago, and the groom, knowing she had just recently moved into a new apartment, had offered it to her. At the time, it had been a symbol of hope in the future - now, it served as a constant reminder of her age, and how long she had waited. He never did call. But his look - the pained look in his eyes, which would always turn to embarrassment if she looked in his direction, had made her warm with hope as she lay alone at night. He made her smile. But it was late, and she was old. Rising from her chair for the last time that night, she hobbled over to the kitchen’s light switch, and reluctantly brought darkness to the room. She lingered at the window before beginning the slow journey upstairs. It was cold outside, and she shivered at the thought of anyone being caught in such weather. *** It rained hard that night, and into the morning. When he finally found his way back to the bridge, the lamps, which had lit his way at night, were already out - fearing, it seemed, to compete with the possibility of a bright morning sun. A new day was about to begin. Standing there, shivering in the phone booth, he thumbed through the wet, now indecipherable pages of his little address book. Receiver held in the crook of his neck, quarter already inserted, his lips trembled not from the cold as he watched his fingers tear the sodden notebook’s pages. It had to still be there.

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