He stood, silent; the autumn breeze blowing against him, running through the neat brown strands of his hair. The fine suited man glanced towards the tombstone which lied in front of him, and with great grief read the name. The stone had been carved out of marble, in memory of a great man, taken long before his time. Gatsby what his name, and the two hadn't spoken for years, the last Nick had seen his old friend was at the man's funeral, him being one of the only ones to pay his respect.
He considered Gatsby to be his only friend, the only one worthy of the title. He was sophisticated, intelligent, loyal, perhaps to loyal, for it was this loyalty that ended with him lying in a casket, never to breathe again. He shivered at this and wrapped his coat tighter around his torso. It had been years since the man's death and this was his first visit, the only time he could bring himself to remember all the events that transpired a few summers ago.
As for his cousin and her husband, life for them hadn't changed. The Buchanan's were the same reckless, uncaring, selfish couple as they once were, and Gatsby's sudden death played no role in it. To Tom and perhaps Daisy, he was just another pawn in their awful game, one which paid the ultimate sacrifice, one which suffered through an untimely death.
But Gatsby being the man he was would have saw it no other way, and would willingly suffer through this if it won the heart of his beloved, the very vixen that signed his contract with death, Daisy. Surely, if he were still living the man would argue against Nick's words, and tell him of how in love he was with the woman, of how he couldn't bear to part from her again. How they were 'destined' to be together, to become one.
Nick sighed at this and pulled a flask out from an inside pocket of his coat. Slowly he opened the top and placed the rim to his lips, tilting his head back as the alcohol slid down his throat, leaving behind a burning sensation. But it didn't much bother him, he had become use to it. He stood like this for a couple more minutes, drinking out of his flask, until he realized how late into the evening it was. With one last sorrowful glance he looked towards the tombstone, and placed the container next to it.
"Drink up old sport." He whispered before turning back to where he had come, leaving behind his friend and the tragic events that had transpired years ago.
