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It wasn't the typical weather one expects for a funeral.
Despite the somber circumstances, the crisp April sky radiated a deep cloudless blue, fading to pastel where it met the horizon. The cool expanse was intercepted by the budding trees that were scattered around the small cemetery in Vermont. It was odd to feel cheerless when the weather and the earth were so happy.
After following the caravan of vehicles to his final resting place, I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, scanning the faces of the crowd that had congregated to pay their final respects to my fellow comrade in arms, Alec Afton. A survivor of the war, Alec met his fate on a slick road during the night, wrapping his Ford around a tree off a tight bend on a lonely highway. He was survived by his wife Chelsea, their son, and the wee babe in Chelsea's belly.
Several of my former colleagues dotted the crowd, each of us wearing our decorated uniforms in honor of Alec's Military Funeral. With a flag draped over the casket, we listened to the preacher's words and stood tall and proud for the guns salute that echoed off the silence of the occasion.
Alec and I had both worked in a military evacuation hospital during the last two years of the Second Great War. I was a young doctor and Alec was a transport medic. The times we spent recalling home mainly consisted of Alec speaking about Chelsea, and me listening. He had asked me once about any girls I'd left back home, and I eventually told him my tale, which ended with me enlisting because I felt like I had nothing to lose. Surely I didn't, not with the love of my life gone forever.
The day before, I had attended the wake and had managed to speak briefly with Alec's young widow. Though I had never met her, I felt like I had known her for years, recalling the many conversations with Alec during my two years of service. While I could have bought flowers, I chose instead to offer her my services as a doctor should she need it. Although I lived in New York, I could be in Vermont within a day if needed. Chelsea seemed grateful for my offer, and we exchanged contact information. She said that Alec had spoken of me and the friendship we had struck while overseas. While she had missed him dearly, she was glad he had met a loyal friend during that dark time. If she had only known, she wouldn't have called me loyal. Alec and I had written back and forth a few times over the past two years, mainly during holidays, but I had never had a chance to see him again before the accident.
I didn't deal with unexpected death very well, and after the funeral my first inclination was to find the nearest bar and drink my emotions away. Attending Alec's funeral was a way to pay final respects and support his loved ones, and I wouldn't have done a good job of that if I had allowed myself to break down in the middle of the service. Instead, I planned on numbing my heartache with a bottle of scotch later on.
As the funeral procession came to a close, I mindlessly found my way back to my car, and my mind wandered to the person whose funeral I missed; the person I will never forget.
Arriving at my hotel, I was directed to a tavern not half a block down the street. I forced myself through a heavy wooden door flanked by windows covered in dirty linen curtains and back lit by sallow yellow lights hanging from the ceiling. Entering this place almost seemed like a punishment compared to the lifestyle to which I was accustomed, but considering my frame of mind, perhaps punishment was long overdue.
It was 12 years and two months that she was taken from me, stolen in the night, when my most honorable intentions were stained by the heinous lie I told her. I was in love with her when I forced her away from me and I was still in love with her when I walked through the doors of the dirty bar - that is if one can be in love with a ghost. All I knew is that my heart had never again felt what it had felt with her, and I never expected to feel that way again.
The rest of the establishment was shadowed in dark woods and more dim lighting. An old upright piano sat in the corner, and although its facade had seen better days, I could tell by the style that it was a Broadwood, possibly from the turn of the century. My fingers twitched reflexively to play it, although it had been a long time that I've been inspired to make music of any sort. I must not have wanted to play too much in that moment however, as my inclination was immediately tempered when someone turned up a scratchy radio which effectively drowned out the low chatter from the bar's other patrons.
Sidling up to the bar at the tavern, I was caught off guard and nearly walked right back out the door. Behind the tall counter was a small man in a clean, but wrinkled dress shirt, with black pants so large they resembled waders. They were kept in place by a pair of black suspenders stretched tightly from back to front, which only served to advertise his bony shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to just below the elbow, revealing the hodgepodge of tattoos on his arms. They did nothing to make his small frame appear more menacing, but I did realize that I would have hesitated a moment or two before doing anything to anger this obviously well-experienced fellow.
However, It wasn't the finer details of the bar man's outfit that stopped me cold. Nor was it the red head in the corner that pouted her lips and fluttered her heavy eyelashes in my direction. What caused me to pause was the sign hanging above the counter just over the array of liquor bottles arranged haphazardly on a shelf.
"Rainier – Bock Beer is here!"
The sign sent chills down my spine, as it was a slogan I hadn't seen in over a decade, but one that was imprinted on my brain like I had seen it yesterday. It was one visual reminder of one of the best nights of my life, and one of the greatest tragedies as well.
Her lips were slick and wet after she pulled away from the bottle of Rainier Bock. She didn't realize all the ways she drove me crazy. Sure, some of them were intentional. She wore the perfume that unhinged me, and more than once she had bent her head down to look at me through her lashes, pouting her lips. But for each intentional move she had mastered in order to set me on fire, she had ten unconscious habits that made me want to be on her, in her, around her all the time.
This time, it was the way she absentmindedly swirled the condensation on the bottle with her right index finger. I knew how that hand, soft and warm felt on my skin, and the sight of her passing it languidly over the slick surface of the bottle only increased the tension I felt whenever I was around her. If that weren't enough, she suddenly became aware of her actions, and slowly brought her hand up to suck the moisture from her skin. To restrain myself from the sight of her full lips enveloping the tip of her finger, I refocused my gaze on the bottle itself.
"Beer, really? A lady deserves champagne."
Her finger popped from her mouth, and my pants became increasingly uncomfortable.
"I have that, too Edward. For later. To celebrate."
Smirking, she leaned forward and slowly placed her cool lips on mine she snaked her arms around my neck, and when she pressed her chest against me, all my control was gone.
I caught the eye of the bar tender, and before long, I realized it was futile to try to focus on my scotch. Finally, I couldn't help my curiosity any longer.
"Where did you go about finding an advertisement such as that?" I motioned toward the Rainier page on the bar, "I haven't seen that particular solicitation in years, and I wouldn't expect to find it here in the east."
The bar tender glanced halfheartedly over at the sign, "We had a…patron who used to come in here, brought that sign in for decoration. Apparently the family hated that old thing hanging around."
I nodded my understanding though the explanation didn't register with me, and then quickly finished off my drink and raised my hand for another.
"Something troubling you tonight, sir?" The barkeep questioned. His head was a mop of coppery hair, lighter and more wiry than my own. His eyes wrinkled at the corners as he raised one bushy eyebrow at me like a question mark.
I sighed, deciding which portion of my story I was willing to feed him. I wondered how much he cared to listen. "That depends, how long do you want me to bother you?"
He chuckled silently, "Well, I do get paid for it. Besides, it's a slow night, and usually whatever I get to hear at work makes me feel better about my own life."
As I was about to respond, a couple of men approached the bar to levy their tab, "Thanks Liam." the barkeep nodded as they disappeared into the street.
"Well, Liam," I started, trying out his name, "I went to a funeral today. A Veteran, former Evac hospital comrade, car crash."
Liam nodded, and a hint of recognition passed through his face, "Sad story, read about it in yesterday's news." Considering this was a small town, his familiarity with the incident wasn't surprising.
"Still," he continued, "not something men go usually go out drinking for on their own for." He paused and took a deep breath, and his eyes bored into me, his lips pursing in concentration. "You look more like a woman troubles kind of guy."
I laughed humorlessly at his response. Yes, woman troubles. But not the kind he was thinking of.
"Woman troubles indeed, Liam. Let me tell you the story about the love of my life, Isabella Swan."
A/N: Should I keep going with this? Please let me know what you think!