Beloved
They had told Andrew Waltfield in his hospital room that they had cracked open the cockpit of his Baku to find Aisha's body spooned against his own, arms wound about all embracing like a mother's. What they did not know was that he had actually been aware of this, because he had woken up sometime long before they had even come and had found himself face-to-face with her. Even through one blood-covered eye, it Waltfield could see her smiling.
What he couldn't remember was whether or not he had started screaming at the point when he had realized that half her face had been burned off and most of the red wasn't his own and that it was coming from the holes that dislodged piping had punched into her. He was certain about opening his eyes again to a cold white room and an unfamiliar ceiling and the thought that she was gone, gone, gone…
He buried her in the lot by a lagoon that they used to frequent at night, to swim naked together under the stars. He still slept in a bed made for two, ate at a table with an empty chair, and drank Indonesian coffee by her picture.