A Beautiful Day (250 words)
Yesterday I was with my wife, for the first time since the accident. There had been pain, and hospital stays, and heartbreak, so I was determined that it would be a day of wonder and cheer now that she had been released.
I woke early and prepared her breakfast in bed. The eggs were too runny, I admit, but the toast was golden brown, and we took turns nibbling on it until our lips met. That lasted until the orange juice spilled, staining the sheets. So we showered. Together. I must admit that I had missed this.
Neither of us wanted to be near a car that day, so we decided to walk everywhere. We went to the movies, catching the matinee (I didn’t like it much, but she laughed at the antics on the screen, so I said nothing). We took a picnic on the beach. I built a sand castle, but the surf washed it all away, so we just walked and watched the sun set.
Later, we had dinner, scallops and shrimp. The wine was too bubbly, but we didn’t care about that. We didn’t care about anything but the company. Just ourselves, together at last.
That night, in bed, I asked her what she wanted. “I want to go on like this, forever.” She said. “Please don’t wake up. I don’t want to die again.”
But the phone rang, and I started, and realized I was in bed alone. And I began to weep.
By Anson Bremer
