Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

epilogue 0.3

I struggle to open my eyes as the incessant cacophonous blaring of my alarm jolts me awake and teases my resolve. Tucked away from the chilly December bite, warm and snug between layers of blankets and my wife's warmth, I second guess myself. I don't need to go. It is not my duty to respect his wishes, just as much as it is not his right to spring anything on me.

I can call Maria and tell her I cannot make it.

I can call Maria and ask her to send some flowers and email him my regrets.

The alarm was still on, screaming right under my side of the pillow.

Will rolls over. Her brows are knotted in discomfort and lips puckered up as she drifts in and out of sleep. The cold air rushes in where our skin had been in contact. I allow my eyes to creak open, lingering at how the dawn's blue glow seemed to be suspended in air refusing to be one with the remnants of the dark night.

I can swear I saw time stand still.

With much courage and coaxing, I reach out, immediately feeling the cold, and silence the alarm as the last of its warning runs out.

Will's brows relax as silence washes over us. One by one, I expose my limbs to the torture of the frigid night air.
I look back one more time before leaving our bed. Will had already usurped my share of the blanket. I smile at her innocent form and bend down to press a kiss against her temple before finally making up my mind.

I roll the windows up as the taxi picks up its speed and we hurtle towards the airport. As it turns out, it is next to impossible to find a seat on a plane to New York at the height of Christmas.

I pull my heavy coat closer to me as I lay back into the squeaky faux leather seat and watch the landscape rush past us from the window, spotty from dried water patches.

According to the TV in the waiting lounge, today is the coldest day of December yet at -50°F. Yet for the first time since the morning, I could feel the nape of my neck breaking into trickling perspiration.
I wipe my hands on my trousers for the hundredth time as my eyes fleet glances at the boarding gate again and again.

In between the moments of shuttling through the empty roads and running to find my gate, I had walked back to the time where I had last seen my father. When I had been 18 years old. When I had had the best and worst year of my life, permanent footprints that follow me around to this day.

My palms clam up again but before I could wipe them, I see people stand up through the corner of my eye.

I sigh and pull the passport and ticket out from the breast pocket.

I will have time enough to ponder and find something to have in common with the man that hadn't asked or cared for me in fifteen years. I would have to trudge back down the same steps I had walked through the minefield with absolute and undeterred discretion that it may not be worth it.