Disclaimer:  Again, this is a fiction from my feeble mind. I don't own any rights to this magnificent show or the movies.  I do not own the rights to (and I am not stealing) the song lyrics listed in this chapter.  The song fits nicely with the way Duncan's feeling about the loss of his wife, Kate.

The song is from the anime Cowboy Bebop; it's called "Is It Real?" by the Seatbelts.

            Joe Dawson sipped the last of his scotch.  He looked into the short square glass and tried to think of the right words to say. Maybe there isn't anything to say. Nothing truly helps at a time like this. He looked around the darkened room. There was only one lamp that was lit throwing long shadows across the opposite wall. Joe had turned on the tall Ambrosia to avoid tripping over the collection of antique trunks that Kate loved. They were strategically arranged around the room to allow a positive flow and exciting atmosphere. These weren't Kate's "hope" chests. "Hope" chests hold all the dear things of what will come. These are Kate's "essence" chests. The chests held all the precious things from her past lives.

            Duncan MacLeod sat in an overstuffed, black leather easy chair. He stared at a wooden plank in the floorboard. Is that the one that always creaked when Kate walked through the room? He asked himself. He didn't notice when Joe stood and carried his empty glass to the kitchen sink. He was mentally going over the last full conversation that he had shared with Kate. She had wanted to spend a weekend in Vermont at a cozy bed and breakfast. Shopping for antiques was her goal.

            Duncan had laughed as he pulled her into his arms. "Sweetheart, you and I have REAL antiques in storage. Between the two of us, we could open a store of our own. Why not use our things for your photo shoot?"

            Kate had kissed him lightly on the nose and said, "Duncan, my love, I want the lay-out to look pretty, not just Medieval. There is such a thing as too antique."

            Duncan looked up as Joe approached him.

            "Mac, I took care of everything. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. I put her personal effects on the table." Joe leaned down and grasped Duncan's right shoulder. "Call me if you need anything," was all he could manage to say and then he started for the door.

            "Joe," Duncan called out. "Thank you, for everything."

            Joe looked back at Duncan and tried to smile. "I talked to Methos, he's coming to see you." Joe gave a final wave and then left.

            Duncan closed his eyes and listened to the door close behind Joe. The click of the door latch sounded like a Revolutionary War canon.  He reached for a half full bottle of whiskey. Closing his eyes, he held his breath as the warm liquid burned its way to his empty stomach.  Before long, he would be able to slip into a sea of black nothingness.

Figurines that fall like leaves then disappear; keep calling,

"Is it real?  Is it real?"

Dark machines that wheeze and breathe then mock the air; appalling

"What is real?  What is real?"

This world can really be too much,

I can't take another day.

I guess that I've just had enough,

My mind's slipping far away.

I'm falling in and out of touch

Could someone please explain?

            Duncan wanted out of the apartment. He wanted to get away from the sights and smells of Kate. The house smelled of her even hours after she would leave for the Studio. Her perfume lingered in the air, in the fibers of their bed linens, and in the wardrobe where her clothes hung.

            The color coordination in the kitchen and in the bathroom screamed, "A woman lives here!"

            In their bedroom, Duncan lifted Kate's silver, marble handled hairbrush from her vanity table. She had purchased it from a quaint little shop in Venice the past spring. The bristles were opaque and soft. He moved his thumb across the velvety tips and pulled out long strands of shiny brown hair. His eyes began to tear as he rolled Kate's hair between his thumb and first finger. He stared at them as thoughts rushed in to haunt him.

            Kate had been sitting at her vanity, watching Duncan through the large mirror. He stood behind her and was brushing her hair. The short style had grown out and hung down on her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes stared up as if daring him to undress her. She had parted her full, moist lips, closed her eyes, and sighed. That was all the Duncan had needed to push him over the edge of restraint. It had been on of those unforgettable nights to remember for all life long.

            Coming out of the painfully sweet reverie, Duncan replaced the brush on the silver Victorian tray, next to the matching hand mirror.

            Tears streaked his tanned cheeks and he felt trapped.

            Taking his house keys from the kitchen counter, he left the apartment to clear his head. A long walk was what he needed.

Set my mind for open sky, but couldn't fly, so sadly

"What am I?  What am I?"

Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies then criticize, now laughing

"What is real?  What is real?"

It's really all become too much,

I'm not sure what I should feel.

I guess I've finally had enough,

I don't know if this is real.

I'm crashing in and out of touch

Can anyone please explain?