This is a companion piece to 'Never Forget'- a 9/11 tribute I posted last year. You don't have to read that to understand this, although I'm going to selfishly advise you to. The response I received with 'Never Forget' was absolutely powerful. I hope this is as helpful for you to read as it was for me to write.
They sit on the balcony that branches off from his study. It's only big enough for a chaise lounge and an end table, but the chaise lounge is more room than they need.
He sits with his back to the door, facing the city as it unfolds beneath them, one arm holding himself up as his leans back, the other holding her.
She sits, plastered against his side, both of her legs draped over one of his. It's as close to in his lap she can be without being in his lap, and while the idea isn't wholly unappealing, there's nothing sexual and everything intimate about this moment.
She sighs and her head finds that place between his shoulder and his jaw so her hair tickles his neck and his breath washes over her cheek when he whispers to her.
The wind belongs to the very beginning of fall- crisp and almost clean this many stories up. Almost.
She always forgets her jacket so he's given her his, and as she wraps the wool tighter around her small frame, she feels a little guilty. Then she feels his bare arm sneak between the jacket and her waist, and she stops feeling guilty.
This is what they both needed, anyway.
Neither speak for the longest time, both content to absorb the view- absorb each other.
Miles away, two beams of light shoot up from some unidentifiable place between buildings and skyscrapers.
Eighty-eight lights. Two beams.
Ten years.
The couple watch as the lights disappear into the clouds.
"I went to the Memorial yesterday, while you were at the station." He breaks their vigil, the words bubbling forth without permission. She looks up at him but doesn't move her head.
"I thought you were spending the day with Nikki?" It was their joke- his sordid affair with her fictional counterpart. Her hand runs soothing circles where it rests on his broad chest.
"I did. She went on the page, so I went after lunch. I just…I needed to. I don't know why."
"I do," she murmurs into his shirt. Her other hand snakes around his back, her fingers massaging his side. He tears his eyes from the tribute to look at her in question.
The hand that rest on his chest stops when it covers his heart, and she closes her eyes for a moment, relishing in its steady beats. He took it as the only answer he was going to get.
It's a long heavy moment before she speaks again, this time directly into his neck, the bridge of her nose grazing the underside of his jaw.
"I went on my lunch break," she admits, softly. She feels his cheek rest against her forehead, encouraging her to continue. "I went to see her name."
They haven't talked about this- about yet another loss, about yet another life stolen from hers.
"We were friends in high school, and we ended up at NYU together," she continues. "She was there for…all of it."
"Did you guys stay in touch?" His heart breaks when her head shakes almost imperceptivity against him.
"I was issued a uniform, she made the deans list and we grew apart. We went out for coffee a few times, but…" She felt his hand against her side, holding her to him.
Holding her together.
"Maybe we'll run into each other next year," he whispers into her hair, earning a small smile against his skin.
"Maybe we could carpool," she replies, and it's his turn to smile at the promise in those four words. "I love you," she whispers.
Later, they'd go inside, their hands glued together. She would shrug out of his coat and it would stay forgotten on the floor while they affirmed their life together.
Now, though- now was the time to reflect, and as the city fell silent and the night reached its darkest, they admired the light for the tenth time.
For the last time.
"I love you, too."
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
T. S. Eliot