II

Al's breath catches in his throat at the sound of the familiar voice. He feels his body recoil involuntarily. He can't yet see her face, but is afraid to decide if he wants to.

"Glad you're having fun, Elizabeth," Chris replies. "I have someone I want you to meet." He motions toward Al.

The smile that lit up her eyes moments ago disappears quickly into a look of shock. She stares at the man standing before her in disbelief.

"Al?" she questions softly.

He returns her searching gaze, unable to pull away. He tries to speak, but only half of a breath filters out. His vocal cords are paralyzed.

Chris, staring at the pair, interjects, "You know each other?"

"We were married, once." Beth looks down at the floor, uncomfortable at the silence.

Chris turns to Al in astonishment. He doesn't have the chance to ask before Beth speaks again.

"Can we talk…somewhere private?" She looks at him with questioning eyes, trying to decipher his silence.

He nods, and finally whispers, "Sure."

. . .

The open bar is spared no expense for the party. A row of ten bartenders stand at almost military attention behind the counter, dressed in impeccable service tuxedos. The wall of alcohol behind them is displayed in small, square windows, at least 20 feet high. A ladder stands off to one side to reach the top tier of spirits, if requested. One of the bartenders approach as they take their seats.

"Good evening, sir and madam. How may I serve you tonight?"

"A bourbon, neat, for me, and a vodka martini for the lady, two olives." Al recites the drinks from memory. The bartender nods, and begins to prepare their drinks.

Beth smiles, the gesture reaching her eyes. "I haven't had that drink in ages."

Al looks up at her from the table as his mind struggles to process everything he's seeing. She is almost a perfect match to his last memory of her, with slightly longer hair, and maybe a few more fine lines. He feels her warm, almost hazel eyes study his features carefully, trying to read what he's thinking. He travels down her delicate nose, lingers at her full, soft lips, and perfect chin. She's beautiful in a way that makes him forget the past, if only for a moment. He wants to reach out and touch her more than anything else.

Her cheeks color under his intense scrutiny, but he can't help himself. His eyes won't peel away. The two small dimples below the upward curve of her lips are exactly where he left them.

Their drinks arrive and he's finally forced to look away. She takes a sip of hers. Her hands are shaking slightly, reflecting ripples in the clear liquid.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

Al takes a moment to answer. "What a coincidence, huh?"

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear. He watches her fingers and remembers the thousands of times he's seen her do the same thing before. His gut aches at the thought that he hasn't seen this simple, perfect motion in twelve years.

A flash on her ring finger catches his eye as she sets her hand down. The gold band he gave her on their wedding is replaced by what had to be at least four karats of diamonds.

Al takes a swig of his bourbon, slowly downing the drink in one motion. The burn as it slides down his throat is familiar and comforting. He signals the bartender for a second, a double.

"You look…well." She's a little unsure of her statement, taking another look at Al. His eyes, lined by dark circles, are somehow unfocused when he looks away, missing the light they used to hold. His physique is surprisingly thin, barely filling out his uniform. "I saw you on TV, during the space flights. You always said you'd go up there someday. I can't believe you made it. And look at you, you're an Admiral! A real horse's ass."

"Yeah," Al replies with an attempt at a smile. "Who would've thought."

"Look at us," she laughs, feeling her nerves begin to calm. "We're old now."

He shakes his head. "You haven't changed at all."

"Now you're just being nice," she says. "Well, you're still as handsome as ever, Al Calavicci." She reaches out and absently touches the hair close to his temples. "I like the gray. It makes you look more distinguished."

He tenses from the unexpected contact. A surge of electricity runs through his skin. He has imagined her touch for so long that the real thing is too…much.

She pulls away quickly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," he interjects. "I just…wasn't expecting it." He takes a long drink from the new tumbler in front of him. This is harder than he imagined.

. . .

"Who's the lucky guy?" he motions to her ring, to change the subject.

She looks down at her hand. "His name is Dirk Simon. He's a senator for Massachusetts."

Al nods, finishing the last of the remaining alcohol. He sets the glass down and motions for another double. He can feel the flame turning into a full-blown fire. "Any kids?"

"Two girls," she says with pride. "They're wonderful, and not quite in the teenage rebellion years yet. You'd like them."

The service is quick. He downs a big portion of the new poison, letting the last statement sink in. "I bet you're a great mom," he says.

"How about you? Did you ever…get married again?"

He looks up into her eyes again. They're mesmerizing, alluring, but at the same time seem to be searching for something. He can stare at them for hours. Almost subconsciously, he reaches for the glass and finishes his third drink. He signals the bartender again.

"Al," Beth cuts in, her voice laced with concern. "That's a lot of alcohol for one night."

"I'm a big boy now," he says, pulling out a cigar from his pocket. "I can handle myself."

The concern doesn't leave her face as she watches him light the cigar. "Are you really okay?" she asks.

Before he can answer, a man dressed in an impeccably tailored tuxedo approaches Beth from behind, places his hand on her back, and leans in to kiss her cheek.

"Hi honey," he says, "who's your new friend?"

Beth reacts with surprise, looking up at her husband. She doesn't expect him to return so soon from his private conversation with Senator Ulrich. "Dirk, this is…Al."

Al stares at Dirk's possessive smile and fights himself from rolling his hands into fists. His body resumes the tension from earlier as his grip tightens on the glass.

Dirk smiles at Al. The past connection between the stranger and his wife is obviously lost on him. He extends his hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you."

Al rises determinedly from his seat, fueled by the liquor and fully intent on a physical confrontation. He feels Beth's hand on his arm before he has a chance to square up his opponent. He turns to her. Her eyes are pleading. Please, don't.

He looks away, angry, at him, at the both of them, but mostly at himself.

"I was just leaving," he states, as he pointedly ignores Dirk's extended hand.

He turns swiftly from the pair, heading toward the exit. He's sick of the city, its people, the politics, and most of all, the bullshit. It has just worn out the last of its charm. He passes the doorman wishing him a good evening and inhales the sticky, humid summer air. He feels sick to his stomach. A cab that's making its rounds rolls down the street with perfect timing.

"Al." He turns to see Beth catching up with him. She stops in front of him and surprises him with a hug. "I'm sorry. I should've stayed in touch."

The stopped cab honks with impatience.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself." Beth steps back from the embrace. Her eyes are moist with tears.

He nods, neither a promise nor a refusal. "Goodbye, Beth."