You wake up to repetitious tapping against the window. It's raining heavily, the wind gusting the drops against the glass. Your eyes are still adjusting, and you reach behind to feel on Tom's side of the bed. It's empty, cool to the touch. He hasn't gotten back yet, you think to yourself.
A nagging feeling pulls you up to sitting position on your side of the bed. The feeling sits at the pit of your stomach, leaving you unsettled. You're reluctant to leave your own warmth, but in the battle between what you want and instinct, the latter wins.
You get up and walk out into the corridor of the flat. The rain pours down, audible though the roof and ceiling.
Then the doorbell rings.
That couldn't be Tom, you assume. He has a key...
Instinct does cartwheels in your stomach, making you slightly nauseous. You walk towards the front door. Might as well answer that...
"Who is it?" you shout. No one answers. Maybe one of the elderly neighbors down the hall needs help. He's hard of hearing.
Open the door, instinct says to you, spreading to your brain.
You open the door, and Tom stands in front of it, rain-soaked from head to toe. Grabbing his arm, you pull him into the flat, closing and locking the door behind him. He has no coat on and is shivering.
"Where have you been?" You ask with genuine concern. He doesn't answer. He just... stares at the floor, avoiding your eyes entirely as if he'd done something wrong.
Your hands cradle his chilly, wet face, pulling his head up. His eyes meet yours. "It's okay, love," you assure him. "I'm not angry. Concerned, but definitely not angry."
His eyes are huge, round, and sad. He seems to be apologizing for something, without saying anything. He may not know what to say. Within moments, his sad, apologetic puppy eyes turn hungry, taking your face in his hands and kissing you passionately.
Hands travel one another's bodies, removing and leaving a trail of clothes between the front door and the entrance of the bedroom. Even naked, Tom's skin and hair are wet. He's still cool to the touch and shivering, but that doesn't stop him from pecking kisses on your neck, trailing across jawline to cheek, and ending with his lips on yours again.
"You're devilishly handsome in that suit," you say to yourself, staring at him lying in a casket. He looks peaceful, as if in a deep sleep, seemingly still breathing, and dressed in one of his fitted, navy blue suits, lifeless and pale.
You're in the funeral parlor early, checking in on the arrangements. It'll be more difficult to see the in-laws, especially his mother, but they're still family, even in Tom's death.
He died during coitus: you were on top, riding him while he was inside of you. He stills, and you assume he's climaxed. One minute, passion fills his eyes, but in the next, it vanishes. He stares straight ahead at the ceiling, ecstasy and life leaving his eyes.
By the time the ambulance arrives, there's nothing to be done; he's too far gone. The coroner soon discovers Tom's heart exploded as a result of a heart attack. It wasn't sex that killed him. It was heart disease.
Tom found out the morning he'd left the flat after breakfast, his face ashen and uncertain. His doctor explains to you the multitude of tests he'd given Tom after noticing an irregularity during a physical, and upon finding the cause, instructed Tom to inform his immediate family and spouse. Surgery was an option, but a high-risk one.
"It's not your fault," she say as you start to leave. "There was nothing you could do. You didn't know."
"I know," you reply, "and I don't blame him or anyone. I just miss him."
You sit on the bench outside of the wedding reception, staring ahead at the sunset. Someone sits down next to you, their hand resting on your knee. You don't turn to see it, but your periphery notices the expression on Tom's face of either puzzlement or concern.
"Is everything alright?" He asks, almost in a whisper.
"Oh, everything's fine," you answer, still staring at the setting sun on the horizon. You turn your attention away to look at Tom. "Today was beautiful."
"Was?!" he questions, surprised. "It still is!" He smiles with his entire face, and your heart melts.
It was such a beautiful day, and you've had those you loved dearly there to share such a beautiful day with. The exchange of vows was personal and intimate and tearful - Tom cried as you walked down the aisle, on his father's arm. The food at the reception was delicious and everyone danced happily, tipsy with joy. You and Tom were already drunk on love for one another...
On that bench, he whispered into your ear something you'll keep forever. The day you saw him lying in that casket, you slip a small piece of paper into his right jacket sleeve. Its contents are that of what he whispered in your ear, with a slight addition. You don't want him to forget it.
You haven't forgotten. You never will.