Meryl sat at the end of the bed with her feet stretched out towards the carpet covered floor. George was reading a newspaper article in his same monotonous tone that had grown long on Meryl, but she loved it with all her heart. The air was sweet and thin with the smell of petunias and irony that cracked like a whip on a race horse’s calf. Meryl just sat and George just read and the slight hum of their bleach white fan glared over top of both of them. George stopped, and with angst and anxiousness all the like stared at Meryl. He set his newspaper down.
“Meryl, I’ve got something I want to tell you,” George exclaimed while raising his paper thin hand to to adjust his night cap. “Meryl, I’ve got something to say and I don’t want you to speak, just listen. I’ve been reading the obituary, and I’m seventy-four now. I will never understand those things, honor the dead by posting their worst picture in the paper. I mean for Christ’s sakes I can see right through their beady little eyes into their soul and there’s nothing in there but memories of their youth and beauty. Meryl, I want to say I love you and I have never been stingy with this phrase, when it comes to anytime of day or condition I’m in. Meryl, I love you.”
She rocked in anticipation of something unknown and it disturbed George to the fullest extent.
“Meryl, say whatcha’ doin’ shakin’ like that.” His question came with no reply, but her uneasiness died down and her neck craned towards the ground, focusing on every dust particle within her line of sight. George gazed at her protruding spine and traced it with his gaze down to where her nightgown was no longer taut enough for it to show through. But with this pause came more words from George, he spoke with a sweet refrain
“Meryl, I’ll love you till the day I die, which is practically Tuesday. Ya’ know I’ve never felt this way for someone, for this long, ever, and I jus’ won’t be able to bear leaving you, you’re the love of my life.” His voice trembled with the thought of death, although he invited immensely, knowing it would take him away from his diminishing conscious, that was now only taken over with bits and pieces of memories and miniscule ideas. The atmosphere of the room depleted as Meryl began to shake vigorously again and havoc began to ensue, but peace was still noticeable in every form. She shook and shook, and George could only stare with a blank face, his physical body froze in an attempt to conceal his emotions. She stopped and turned towards him, her face was pale and drooped with every wrinkle, and he noticed the contours that now receded into her sad lonely structure, she once was beautiful.
“George, I’ll love you till the day I die, and that’s practically now.” Her face drew slowly cold and she dropped once more to the bed, just as she had when they made love and the heavens sung their song of tranquility and infatuation. George picked up the newspaper with haste and scrolled with his eyes down to the left corner of the page he had been reading.
“Meryl Smith: Dead at 78. Her epitaph shall read ‘Death was beauty upon arrival and then swiftly took me from all I had ever known.’”