text: This story is dedicated to Morag, Alison, Viv, David, Diane, Pat "Miss America", Sonnie, Milo, and anyone else who is battling, has battled, or has been affected by cancer. *-* An old man sits alone in his dark house and pours himself a drink. It is the first birthday he will be spending without the woman he loved for so many years; the woman he still loves. He was lucky to meet her; it came as a fleeting chance that he seized upon. And from that, the purest form of love was shared. From their first kiss, to their first house, to her saying ‘I do’; he fondly recalls her smile. He takes a small sip of his whiskey; the ice has melted as he was lost in his thoughts. He smiles warmly, remembering her as a tear trickles down his cheek. He looks back on it all; their adventures, their struggles, their life. He didn’t think it would end so early, let alone so suddenly. What started off as fatigue quickly became sinister; a tumour growing inside her. She fought hard and she fought true, but she could not beat her sickness. And now, the old man drinks alone. He fiddles with the radio which quietly begins to play, providing a backing track to the memories he holds. Her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Her laugh. Things he wishes he could see again, hear again. But, he cannot. He cannot kiss her. He cannot laugh with her. He cannot hold her waist. Instead, he drinks alone. His hand reaches down and touches the spot on the couch that was hers. ‘That’s my spot, silly’, she’d claim if he ever dared sit there. He loved to though, just to annoy her - even if it was just to get her attention. But now, it’s empty. He would never dream of sitting there again. That’s her spot. The man is unsure whether he drinks the whiskey to numb his pain or to step closer to his grave where she’ll be waiting for him; perhaps, he drinks it for both of these reasons. Every sip of the liquid is met and equalled with the now steady flow of tears that he produces as he quietly cries. The radio flickers, almost as if it is interrupted, and begins to play a song the man recognises. It’s their song. It’s the song they first danced to. He stifles laughter; the mass of emotion proves too much for him to know how to properly react. Soon he is smiling once more, but the tears continue to fall. The song quietly plays as the man closes his eyes and remembers their first dance. She was so beautiful that night. As he held her waist, she held his heart. And they danced. He imagines he is back there, his butterflies rising at the first sight of her. His eyes closed, he remembers her smooth skin against his as they slowly danced, ignoring the world. Her hair, in his face, tickling his nose, but there was no way he was moving it away. Her scent - The man opens his eyes and they dart around the room. Her scent. It’s here; her sweet perfume drifts into the room. Suddenly, he is not alone anymore. The room is empty, but he knows she is here. Her presence is unmistakable. His heart flutters, as it always did when she was close, and the room brightens. He opens his mouth to speak, to call out to her, but no words come out. His eyes frantically search the room looking for the woman he’d lost too soon. Beside him, she sits. He cannot see her, but he knows she is there, sat in her spot on the couch. He stands, feeling wary and confused yet somehow safe. The overwhelming safety that he’s only ever felt with her before. The kind of safety that turns a house into a home. His quivering eyes stare at the spot on the couch. The vast sense of love the man feels repairs the pain in his heart more than his whiskey ever could. Then, as if he following her, his eyes rise. The man stares ahead; the same height he had stared at for so many years looking into her eyes when she had stood before him. And now, she’s standing with him once more. He knows she is. He reaches his hands out as their song continues to quietly play. He gently rests them on the waist of the woman he knows is there, but cannot see. Despite this, he looks into her eyes. And then, they begin to dance. They move slowly, in complete unison; a step forward, a step back. The song provides their only company, but the man could be in the middle of a war zone and he wouldn’t notice. All he sees is her. With every step of the quiet dance, the room brightens. With every step, the old man’s house becomes a home once more. As they dance, the tears dry on his face. The tears carrying the pain, the torment; dried out by a single dance. He knows she won’t be here for long, so he smiles. She’d rather see his smile than his pain. His nose twitches; her hair tickling his face as her head rests against his chest. The song is almost over, but the man prays for it to never finish. *Please*, he silently begs, *please don’t end.* But it does. And with the final words of the song and the final strums of the guitar, the old man is alone once more. He slowly lowers his arms, desperately hoping that he will feel her as he had a second ago. But he knows deep down he will not. He knows he won’t feel her again. He quietly thanks her for giving him one last dance. Gradually, he moves back and picks up his bottle of whiskey as he rests beside her spot on the couch. The old man sits alone in their home and pours himself a drink.