A is for Anniversary
- Widowmaker -
It was surreal standing here again after so long. The weather gave her a sense of bitter nostalgia: the overcast sky, the last autumn leaves, and a billowing wind that would soon carry snow. Fitful rain had made the footpath shine, and it was familiar. Too familiar.
Gérard hadn't wanted to wait until Spring. "Let's get married now," he'd told her, taking both her gloved hands in his as they'd stood on the Pont des Amours Bridge, surrounded by thousands of love-locks and red-leaved trees. "Let's get married before I fly out on my next assignment!"
He'd kissed her then; his cold lips against hers, their breath warming each other's skin. She'd been laughing, she remembered. Get married in Autumn? Her mother would be horrified! There was no point in saying so, though: Gérard had made up his mind. When he made up his mind about something, he'd make it happen, and it would be incredible. Everything about him was incredible.
In that kiss—in sealing their own love lock on the wet, cold bridge together—she'd had her whole beautiful life ahead of her. She could still remember that feeling, that sense of being on top of the world, even if she couldn't feel it now.
She knew where their lock was, too, even after all these years. So many other star-struck lovers had piled theirs on top, all matted together on top of each other that she needed to brush metal chains aside to find theirs.
It was still there. Rusted a little, now, but still the same gold it had been before. Still with the beautiful swan engraved on one side. She'd had feathers on her wedding dress, just like the feathers she'd been wearing on her costume the night she'd met Gérard. Her premiere as a prima ballerina, dancing Odette/Odile in Swan Lake.
Now, the lock felt cold in her hands. Cold, and wet. Rusted and tired. She pulled at it, wondering if it would break with the rust, but it didn't. It held strong.
He still loves me, she thought automatically, and then felt… something. Uncomfortable, uneasy. She was shivering, too, she realised. It was happening again.
She took a flight to Iraq that evening. Moira's driver met her at the airport, and Widowmaker was surprised to find that Moira was waiting in the car, too, dressed as the minister she was.
Widowmaker sunk into the plush leather seat opposite her, tired. She closed her eyes.
Moira didn't need to ask her how she was feeling. "Some more adjustments are required, I gather?" Her voice was gentle, understanding.
Widowmaker barely had enough breath left to speak. "Yes," she murmured. "It's happening again."