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In the beginning, time was not a problem. One would expect, after fifty years of dust-gathering, that memories of a girl's youth would be dim. She still remembered. Every time she looked at his curled, now-useless artist's hands or saw the intelligence sparking in his rheumy black eyes, it came back to her.
Alice Kingston had one boyfriend during high-school. He lasted through the first six months of her freshman year. She was a plain girl with brown hair and green eyes. Her claim to attention garnered her little respect from the youthful set, but quite a bit from her instructors: she was a writer. Not terribly good, to tell the truth, when Mr. Orton came to teach. She held few magazine credits here and there, not to mention a spectacularly swollen ego.
Jhonen Orton could only be described as a dark and severe of face. His features resembled a spill of black ink on clean white paper. He wore button-down shirts with black slacks almost constantly and conducted himself in a smooth, amusing manner. He greeted his sophomore class with a smile and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Alice stared at the tracery of veins under his white, white skin and the delicate strength of his hands. The majority of the class relaxed at the gentle air of this imposing man, their fears of torment assuaged. Alice simply watched, transfixed.
The first story he corrected for her was a mess of red ink and side notes, much to her scorn. What could this man possibly find wrong with her work? She feigned disinterest in his comments to her classmates and read it in secret at home. She was amazed. His intellect seemed to be able to wrap around every concept of the art of writing and lay it bare before her eyes. She would guess that this was when she began to fall in love with the man. She was freshly sixteen. He was thirty-four.
They met for coffee and editorial comments through her summer breaks. After what seemed like the shortest time, she found herself clutching a cap and gown in hand, walking to her car. Her graduation was in two days. Two more days, and she might be forced to part ways with the most wonderful man she had ever met. Half-crazed with desperation, she threw the clothes into her automobile and raced up to the school once more. He was packing up when she flung his door shut behind her and grabbed him by the collar of his pristine white shirt. He stared down at her until her mouth found his and she kissed him, messy and wet with inexperience. There were words traded; morality, need, love, age. She did not remember what was said, only that he'd sent her out to her car with a quick peck on the cheek and a promise for dinner, after her graduation.
They did not often broach the subject of time. He told her about his life insurance policy over the cake celebrating his sixtieth birthday. Her hair was still mostly brown, but it was growing wiry and less manageable. They made love that night and for the world she would swear that it was even more wonderful than the first time. Twenty-four years passed.
He did not talk much anymore. His arthritis had twisted his beautiful, thin hands into useless bones. He did not write in red ink on her stories, nor did she compose them. They had never bothered to have children, though they also had not tried to prevent it. She regretted that now. When he'd come out of the doctor's office today, they had not said anything about the tests. He kissed her on the cheek and smiled.
Tonight she looked at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing every detail of her weary face. Her hair was grey and her cheeks had small sunspots. They sagged. There were bags under her eyes. She was no longer the same skinny, pretty little girl that had thrown herself, desperate with love, into the arms of a man twenty years her senior. A man who would most likely die before the New Year. Time had slipped from them, somewhere, and it was not enough. Fifty scant years could never be enough; not yet, she was not ready to lose him. She had not ready to say goodbye in school, and was no more so now.
Mrs. Orton began to cry.
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