I've been having dreams. Bad ones. The kind that make me awaken in a heart-thumping panic, my eyes wide and staring off into the dimness of my room, certain of the evil creatures lurking in the far corners.
That is, that's what happens when I am even able to sleep. Mostly when I finally go to bed, I end up lying on my back, staring out the window as the sheer curtains slowly wave in the night air. My right hand moves across the cool sheet beside me with a mind of its own, searching in vain for his big, warm, comforting body. My other half.
I do not try to hide my aching heart. I do not care what others think. I never did. It was to please him that I tried to pretend we were "just good friends," knowing that it was the best known "secret" in Dodge for the past nineteen years.
Dear Doc, Festus, Newly, and even Burke, do their best to cheer me, or sit silently with me at our table in the saloon. Festus doesn't know what to say, which is a first for him, and he just drinks his beer, patting my hand at times. I can feel the pain in his soulful eyes on my face as I stare at the batwing doors. When I catch myself doing that, I put a smile on my face that cannot reach my eyes and look at him, and then he quickly looks down to hide his own eyes. We share years of a deep friendship and now are bound by a deep, shared pain.
I still find myself expecting dear Sam to be behind the bar, polishing glasses and pausing to give me a smile that transforms his craggy face. He was such a quiet, solid, dependable presence that I never took for granted, but also never thought would sicken and quickly die. He loved me with an intense loyalty, and we shared a like mind in many ways. My love for Sam continues, and gentle Floyd realizes that and never tries to replace him, accepting his predecessor's continued presence behind the bar.
Sometimes I trudge up the steep stairs to Doc's office home and sit in the chair by the window. He glances up from his desk work or medical magazines, winks at me, and we sit in a companionable silence. I have caught him sadly studying me as I quickly look out the window whenever the hooves of an arriving horse are heard. His blue-gray eyes are so much like Festus' then, and I am able to dryly chuckle at how he would grumble at any resemblance to the Deputy Marshal. But his heart hurts too for the man he loves like a son.
I no longer cross off the days on the wall calendar in my office. I have lost track of how long he has been gone. Every day and every long night feel like they run together with sameness and nothing to look forward to. Maybe forever. He did say he would be back, and I have never known that fine man to lie. I hang onto that when the despair threatens to rise up like a thick, engulfing fog, and pull me down into it. Only his death would keep him away.
This early morning I am once again sitting at our table, working on the business ledgers, cup of fresh coffee beside me. The saloon is empty at this hour. I try to keep my mind on the familiar task of the saloon's accounts that is second nature to me now, but find myself staring down into the depths of my blue and white china coffee cup. The hot, black liquid has created small clouds of steam, and I have become mesmerized and lost in my own darkness.
I am so absorbed that I miss the slight, squeaky "swish" of the batwing doors, a sound I could recognize anytime, anywhere. My eyes have gone back to the ledgers in a desperate attempt to not think, trying to lose myself in numbers.
"Kitty."
My name is said so softly in that deep, rich voice, but the sound reverberates in my thirsty heart.
I look up, afraid that it is only my yearning imagination. My eyes take in his eyes, smiling face, and big frame, and fill with the welcoming look that belongs to only one man ever.
"Oh, Matt."
End.
