His Last Game

A woman finds her old friend dead on a bench. Her game, the one that she played with him, finally comes to an end...

To my dear friend Joseph. May you rest in peace.

Her breaths were cold and calm. Her shaking hands tightened because of the unrelenting cold, not because of him. She would not feel anything for him--she would lose the game if she felt.

The dampness tickled her toes as she approached his unmoving body. His eyes opened wide, clouded with a blanket of ashen snow. "Stupid old fool," she said, her breath heavy, yet thinking. "You should've been inside. Why were you out here?"

She wiped the snow from his sunken face. The frost was sharp as she traced his lips, outlining the curves of his beauty. She cupped his hands, intending to raise them closer to her, to feel him on her, but they became lazy to her will. Her eyes grew disappointed because it was no longer the old man they saw. It was only the fleeting thought of someone they once knew.

In summers long gone, those same hands tended the rooftop garden above the apartment. His fingernails became caked with soil, but he liked them that way. He proclaimed himself a 'simple' man. As long as his garden was in good spirits so was he. His garden could have humbled enthusiasts. But he thought otherwise. "Nobody wants to see this," he grumbled, his eyes growing grey. "Nobody wants to see the shadow of a once great man, my dear. They'd rather look at you, at your young cheeks."

So she'd blush. "What are you talking about? People would love to see your garden!" She planted her feet onto the ground and shook her head. With the clicks and the clacks of her heels, she captured memories of his work with her Kodak. She glanced back at him, he at her. She saw his sick-pills on the table and the gentle smile on his face that made everything seem alright. "You'll appreciate your garden someday!" she yelled. "You'll thank me when the time comes!"

But of course he never had. She intended to show the pictures to him next spring, as some sort of perverse reward for him making it that far.

"That's a bet?" he asked later that same day.

"It's on," she replied, inching closer to him, flirting with his virtues. She reached over and grabbed his hand, her grip hungry. She could feel him tensing up. He glanced at her, she at him, their eyes fluctuating toward each other in minuscule dances. He's going to get better soon, he's going to be beautiful, she reminded herself, brightening a smile.

But her smile fell as he retracted and pulled away from her. He knew.

"No, it's not proper," he said. "It's not right."

Gentle, quiet snow fell on his unmoving body. The smile he had, the one that hugged his high cheek bones, made her happy. As long as he was happy, so was she. His dead hair crackled with the run-through of her hand. His skin, years ago supple with her wanting touch, now lay frosted. It hung with age.

She never realized he would be gone this soon. He would never intentionally admit defeat.

The snow thundered down as she shook his body, but he did not budge. This old man was being stubborn. The old man she knew would not have given up like this. She shook him, thinking he had played some joke on her by being immobile. She preferred that over the alternative. But this was not a time for games, she knew. He was never one for jokes and would not have started now. But still. "You're kidding!" she yelled. "Stop joking with me. You were never funny!"

With a flash of silence she slapped him, her hands tasting his cold cheeks. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw recognition dawn in his eyes. Her mouth twitched and it was then that she knew.

There was no sadness, no grief. There was not supposed to be any. She had promised.

"Let's play a new game," he said last summer over morning tea. "The reward is satisfaction. That's the only thing I can give. But I need your promise to play."

"Go on." She loved his games.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"The name of the game," he explained, "is to be happy, something you've always been good at. So be happy from now on. Don't be sad even when I'm gone. Do this for me."

She would take the promise with a grain of salt, but she knew she did not want to lose. She had always won the games she played with him, even though she sometimes won too easily. The misshaped smile on her face revealed the insecurity in her promise.

She wished she could have done something for him. But he had desired nothing, needed nothing. He had once told her the world was filled with people who wanted nothing but to please themselves. "I'm nothing like them. I don't want to be them," he used to say.

A sudden chill eased her closer to his body. She cleared traces of snow that lay peppered on him. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere, you hear?" She was always the funny one, not he.

The wind made circles as she returned. She traced the veins of the album with wanting fingers. It was her album, the one filled with pictures of his work--his memorial. This was the least she could do for him; this was all she knew to do. The album slid into his arms like a lock to a key. He looked happier, did he not? But it could be that she was happier, not he.

Her stomach gurgled. There was a tangy taste as she emptied her breakfast, splattering gooey colors over the snow. The air left her in succinct breaths of realization. She wiped her mouth clean and checked that her breath was fresh, for that would have been how he would have wanted her.

She cupped his cheeks and leaned in closer, face to face, eye to eye. But his eyes had become clouded with the frost, and so her disappointment grew. No, it's not proper. It's not right, he seemed to say. But she had won. She had not cried, had not mourned. She was happy and that was all that was needed. So she leaned in nuzzling his cool lips with her own. Her skin on his, his on hers. If he were still alive, he would have heard what she whispered to him moments later. But those few words would remain lost to the cold air.

Her heels, too big and too grown-up, clicked as she walked away. She couldn't help but look back at him again. She could feel an irritation in her eyes, one that fought hard to keep the tears inside. But she had won and so she did not cry. Through her thick frosty breath she smiled tight-lipped. "Goodbye, my friend."

THE END.