Title: Finding Ulysses

Author: Peachykin

Rating: YTEEN for now will go ADULT

Pairing: Mi/L

Disclaimer: I don't own Roswell. Unfortunately Katims did and now we're all just cleaning up his mess.

Chapter 9

Michael could have spent the rest of the day being nervous about the various art critics who would come to pick apart his paintings, but Michael Guerin never gave two shits about what other people thought about his creative expression, and that was a sentiment that had carried over to Michael Joyce. He saw the critics even being at his show as arbitrary and never did anything to cozy up to them, hoping for a better review.

Miriam had made the suggestion to drop the icy act upon his very first show, but she learned quickly that she should thank her lucky stars that Michael's middle finger at people telling other people what's good and what's crap, was purely figurative, and if she kept pushing he might just make that analogy literal.

Michael wasn't even fretting about his potential buyers. He respected most of them, because they'd found something in his work that touched them enough to part with a few thousand dollars and take home. Most of them liked to pull him aside and ask about his inspiration, hoping for some insight into the artist, but never got it. It was yet another thing Miriam had encouraged him loosen up on, until Michael pointed out to her that, most people didn't really want to know him, they just wanted to see if they were right. The buyers got what they needed from the painting and just needed confirmation of their feelings, not something Michael was willing to give.

So if it wasn't the buyers and it wasn't the critics that made Michael uncharacteristically distracted throughout the day leading up to the show, that what could it be? Miriam had little doubt as to whom, by the way Michael kept reaching up and almost caressing the dark bruise on his neck. Liz.

It tore at the Miriam's heart to see Michael with such a heavy heart and unwilling to burden his troubles upon another sympathetic soul. But one thing she knew about Michael Joyce, was that while he might have enjoyed playing a man of mystery, he wore his every emotion in his body and face, if you just knew how to look, and few people cared to try and see that. She only hoped Liz did.

Michael had tortured himself all day with the memory of Liz's body pressed against his. Her soft skin beneath his fingers and her lips, God those lips, not only accepting his ardent kisses, but returning them. Why did she kiss him? Why did she have to step over that line? And why did he have to follow her so willingly over it?

Michael looked around the gallery, first to his standards, the ones of New Orleans and her various characters, loves and charms, and then to his new pieces, towards the back, the ones that he knew were so revealing, but only to one person. He was tempted to call the bar and tell Liz not to come. After what had happened between them that morning, nothing could ever be the same again. He and Liz had taken down walls they'd both put up and let each other in, or at least he thought they had. If Liz had truly taken her wall down, why did Michael still see Max lurking behind it?

Fear wanted her to stay away. That scared little boy inside of Michael, tired of having his hand smacked away from the brass ring no matter how hard he tried, wanted him to give up and stop feeling the horrible sensation of falling off the damn merry-go-round and spinning into disappointment and heartache. Love was not a horse easily hopped back upon. Most wild things aren't.

But as strong as that fear might have been, he knew not wanting her there was a lie to himself. When he painted his pieces he knew she'd be there to see them. That she'd see every last vestige of his soul poured into those paintings and laid bare for her to see. He knew that he was living on borrowed time when it came to suppressing his feelings for her. Maybe that was why his resolve had crumbled so easily that morning. He knew she'd see his love in those simple brush strokes, because she could always do that, see him.

Liz already had Michael on his knees, emotionally, for her, why not show her how much. That despite the "dance" they'd been doing, it was more than just that to him. She touched him in a place that no one had ever gotten to before, and for once in his life, he'd invited it. As much at peace as he was in, when she walked in those bar doors a month earlier, he knew everlasting peace could only come from completion with her. Not just sexually, although that held high appeal for him, but emotionally.

He wanted Liz in his life, but would never say needed. If she left, he would still go on breathing, painting and living, but something would always be missing and all he would have left of her were these paintings and even most of them would find new homes after that night. Could he really let her extract herself from his life that easily? Would asking her not to, make him just as bad as Max? He could hardly believe it, but for once in a very long while, Michael understood what the pain of losing Liz's love must have meant to Max.

As seven quickly approached, Michael kept a close eye on the door, unconsciously, or maybe not so much, to see if Liz would indeed show up. The thought, among the many that day, had occurred to him that after their exchange, and from what he could see, mutual heartache, she might just make her retreat that night. He put a hand over his heart at that proposition, still having so many things to say to her.

He'd tried his best to keep up his end of the social conversation with critics, guests and buyers, but Michael was never a man of many words. He preferred to keep things simple and to the point. And when it came to his paintings he felt they should speak for themselves, what the each person took away from them was their's to own, not his. In his opinion, no one had copyright on free thought.

Miriam watched Michael from across the room as he was vaguely listening to a wealthy female admirer of his. She, having bought several of his earlier works, seemed obviously intent on adding him to her collection rather than his art. But if this woman had really looked at his new pieces, she would have seen that Michael saw no other woman but Liz.

Michael had been listening to the early thirties, attractive brunette divorcee drone on about the mood behind one of his new pieces, doing everything she could to detach the relationship of the "model" to him , when it was so clear that she meant something to him, consumed him.

This woman was trying to overanalyze what, to Michael, was entirely simple. Yes, while his feelings were laid bare, that need not mean they were in anyway complicated. He'd followed some advice and painted what he loved, there was nothing existential or metaphorical about it.

His attention was mercifully and torturously taken away from the woman when, promptly at seven, he saw Sweet walk into the gallery with a stunning Liz on his arm. Her dark hair was piled loosely on her head and her eyes were dark and smokey, but still did nothing to hide the deep brown that seemed to be Michael's siren song. His eyes traveled further down to her attire She was clad in a black, loose-fitting cocktail dress held together up by flimsy ties on each shoulder and had no adornment or design. When she wasn't walking it held nicely to her curves and when she was, swayed perfectly around her legs, accented by her strappy, slightly heeled sandals. She was the epitome of simple and beautiful.

He couldn't help but smile at the way she clung to Sweet's arm for support. She'd told him it'd been a while since she'd worn high heels and she looked as though she was on very unsure footing, but in only the way she could made her look like the most graceful woman in the room.

Michael watched Liz's eyes dart around the room, and by the look on her face , had yet to see his new paintings. Moreover she was looking for him, biting her lip and marring her carefully applied lipstick in the process. She seemed, worried and anxious, much like Michael felt.

"...And the model for this particular painting, she's more as a point of reference for the light you're playing with here. I see it as more the dark and the light contrasting creating a tunnel effect. She's almost insignificant..." the woman next to him carried on, stopping when she realized Michael wasn't even looking at her let alone paying attention to one word she'd said.

"Ahem." she cleared her throat a bit haughtily when she saw that Michael attention had turned to the very girl in the painting, "Ahem, Mr. Joyce are you even listening to me?"

"What?" Michael asked, taking his eyes away from Liz for a moment when he heard the woman next to him trying to gain his attention.

He looked back up at the painting she'd been talking about and shook his head, "No, I haven't really been listening to you, because for once I feel like the viewer has no fucking clue what they're looking at. It's not about darkness and light, nor is it about a tunnel effect. The model is central, as she is in all my new pieces."

He pointed a finger up to the painting, titled The More Things Change..., and let out an exasperated sigh, "It was closing time and the rest of the damn bar was dark. She had the light on so she could do the books. Sometimes, there isn't deep meaning in my paintings. It just is what it is."

The brunette stood, mouth agape at the dressing down the hunky artist had just given her. Michael gathered she'd never actually been told the truth by anyone before and especially not someone she was about to spend thousands of dollars on. Michael looked once more at the painting, then back towards the front of the gallery and then back down that the divorcee still reeling from his honesty.

"That model, is not insignificant. She's everything." he said narrowing his eyes at the woman, far from fooled by her growing indignance. "Excuse me." he added, turning away from her to make his way towards Liz.

Sure he was about to lose the divorcee's business with his cantankerous rant, but it was business he was more than willing part with. It was one thing to criticize the work, Michael could deal with that, but the model, never. Liz deserved better than to be put on the walls of a woman more interested in his strokes in the bedroom than his talent as an artist..

Liz looked up at Sweet anxiously as Miriam led the older man away, knowing the couple would need to be alone. He patted her hand and winked at her, trying to reassure the worried girl that indeed everything would be okay. Liz's faith in Sweet was infinite, but this was her heart, and Michael's they were dealing with, two very fragile and unsure things at the moment.

Liz turned her attention to Michael now only a feet away and for the first time since she'd returned to him, she couldn't read his face, for it seemed to read so many different emotions. Confusion, pain, relief and trepidation. One that was surprisingly missing though was his anger. What had been burning so brightly on his face that morning seemed to be gone, or at the very least deeply buried inside him. She wondered if he'd tucked it away for the show and was content to release it afterwards and she wondered how much it pained him to do so.

"You came." he said, caught somewhere between relief and surprise.

"Of course I did, Michael. I know how important this is to you." she answered, deliberate in her double meaning, seeing what kind of response he would have.

And awkward silence settled between them and the hum of the crowd noise surrounding them assaulted their ears. Liz wanted to yell, scream, or shout to Michael that his fears about her leaving were unwarranted. That she had never given a moments thought to leaving him, because she never wanted to know what a day without Michael felt like again. But it was far too public a place to make such a declaration. She couldn't count on Michael's discretion nor her own when she told him about the divorce and she needed them to be someplace where discretion wasn't a factor.

"Look Michael," she said after taking a deep breath, "we obviously need to talk. There are some things I need you to understand. Some things I've been keeping from you, but this isn't the right place is it?"

Michael looked around at the increasingly crowding gallery and nodded, "No it really isn't." he let out a puff of air, annoyed at himself, "And the truth is I've been keeping some stuff from you too, Liz."

Liz furrowed her brow at him in surprise. Of the two of them she'd felt Michael had been the more honest and forthcoming, or at least it appeared that way. What could he possibly have kept from her besides his suppressed feelings for her?

Michael smiled at her confusion, "Trust me. You'll see." he answered her cryptically.

Tempted to ask him exactly what he meant Liz grew distracted by the various people calling out Michael's name, trying to gain the young artist's attention. This was his night, they could clear the air later.

"I should let you get back to your teeming masses." she gestured at the crowd of people with a smile, "I'll be with Sweet if you need me."

"Not like I could miss you." Michael told her raising an eyebrow.

Liz blushed, unconsciously smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on her dress. Her eyes widened when she caught the dark purple mark her mouth had left on his neck that morning and she let out a small gasp. She immediately grabbed her purse and began searching for her compact, much to Michael's confusion.

"Liz, seriously you look...uh... beautiful." he reassured her.

Liz brought out the compact opening it and removing the pad, "Its not for me, "she tried to explain, "Its for you, I...um... gave you a..." she raised her hand to his neck. When Michael gently grabbed her wrist halting her movements she rolled her eyes, "I'm not going to put make-up on you, Michael. I'm just going to heal it through the pad. Make it look like I cov..."

Michael shook his head, lowering his voice so only she could hear him, "Don't Liz. Don't cover it up or make it go away. I earned it."

Liz nodded her understanding. She had similar marks on her body that were hidden by make up or clothing, she having been unable to make them disappear as well, proud of the way Michael had claimed her without apology.

Liz could only watch, her tongue once again heavy, as Michael walked back into the crowd shaking hands with journalists and collectors.

"I'm not leaving." she whispered, mentally chastising herself for not at least giving Michael that reassurance.

~*~

Liz caught sight of Sweet and Miriam toward the back of the gallery where Michael's new artwork was being showcased. As she made her way towards them, she got the odd feeling of being watched and caught the conspiratorial whispers of the gallery patrons.

"Do you really think that's her?"

"Well, I saw him talking to her."

"That doesn't prove anything. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Come on. The hair. The eyes. I'm tellin' you it's her."

"I guess... but she seems so much smaller... Are you sure?"

'Sure about what?' Liz wanted to know, unable to shake the feeling that she was the exhibit. As she rounded the corner joining Miriam and Sweet everything became suddenly clear. She looked up at the canvas Miriam and Sweet were studying and was met with her own chocolate brown eyes staring back at her.

Sweet felt the tiny girl grasp his arm in order to steady herself and heard the tiny whistle of her breath being taken away. He wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed her, "Breathe, Baby girl."

Breathe. How does one do that after seeing yourself up on a canvas? Liz stared up at the painting marveling at the moment Michael had captured. It was her the night Michael had left. She was standing on the porch step in her worn robe, eyes glistening with tears and arms wrapped around her body in an attempt to replace the warmth Michael's embrace had provided her with only moments before it.

Liz shivered, remembering the chill she felt that night and every night after it until she walked back into Michael's life. She glanced down at the title, Last Look, and realized that the painting was exactly as Michael had seen her before he'd closed the door to the Nova and drove away, obeying her request to not look back.

"I-Its m-me." She stammered, overwhelmed. No wonder Michael had been so secretive about his new muse. It was her.

"Sug," Miriam said softly, laying a hand on Liz's arm, "They're all you. Every single one of them."

Liz tore her fixed gaze away from her anguished twin in the tattered flannel robe and looked around the room. Miriam was right. Every single new piece by Michael Joyce had the same dark-haired beauty in them. Some were happy, others sad. They were all seemingly innocuous moments in time. Moments Liz hadn't even realized Michael was watching her. And in every single one of them, even the not so glamorous ones, she was, and truly felt, beautiful.

Foresaking Faulkner, a portrait of Liz in the park, she wore a serious look of concentration on her face, trying for the umpteenth time to get through Ulysses.

The painting of her doing the books, having a conversation with Sweet, entitled Old Souls and Millenium Eve was a brief trip the farmer's market. He even painted her writing in her journal on the balcony, clad in that red jersey, steaming mug of coffee by her side, Morning Confessions

Liz let out a nervous giggle and blushed when she saw Rock Star, a picture of her during one of her many impromptu Metallica concerts in the kitchen. Michael captured it all. And while the recurring theme was this woman, another one screamed out of the paintings at her, Michael's intense love.

Liz recalled the time when her life truly changed, Max had shared flashes of her, how he saw her, and she remembered feeling beautiful in his eyes. But she also remembered feeling almost idolized, put on a pedestal that left her only room to fall from grace in Max's eyes every time she shattered that image. At one time she wanted to strived to be that beautiful for Max, but found it an impossible goal to reach no matter how much he wanted to and how much she wanted to be for him.

But in these pieces, these seemingly arbitrary, but, in fact, carefully chosen moments, Liz felt as beautiful as Michael had painted her. He didn't leave out her flaws or paint her in some ethereal light. He let her hair be messy and her eyes be puffy or her mouth be a open a little too wide in laughter and it was all beautiful because that's how Michael saw her, loved her. She wasn't an angel there on earth who never made a mistake. She was a woman, human, flawed. She wasn't perfection incarnate, she was just perfection for him. Real. Attainable, and yet just out of his reach. If only he knew all he had to do was try.

Liz had been so quiet throughout their entire walk through of Michael's paintings. A myriad of emotions seemed to play out on her face, each one reflecting the mood of each piece and the particular memory it brought about. Sweet didn't dare let go of Liz feeling her tremble against him, weakened by what she was seeing.

"You okay, Liz?" he asked her as they reached a small section containing Michael paintings that weren't for sale.

"Hmm?" Liz asked as if being snapped out of a trance, "Um... yeah... I think so..."

Miriam and Sweet exchanged a worried glance, wondering if seeing Michael's loved laid bare for her was too much to take in. Even to the casual observer Michael's passion for Liz tugged at the heart, but being the object of that passion had to be a whole other experience entirely.

"Mir?" Liz asked, "Did Michael tell you why he wasn't selling these?"

Miriam smiled and nodded, "As much as Michael tells anyone anything about his paintings."

"What about this one?" Liz pointed to the one titled, Little Miss Scientist, and raising an amused eyebrow.

It was Liz at the university, looking at the college board where she'd found Michael's ad for a waitress. They'd stopped by there one afternoon to take down the ad and Michael must have caught her looking at the various flyers on guest lecturers for the upcoming fall semester. But what struck Liz was the reflection in the glass of the board. From behind Liz was clad in a pair of denim shorts, tank top and back pack, but her reflection shone her in blue hospital scrubs, a crisp white lab coat and a clipboard at her hip.

"Michael said something about saving this one for a friend," Miriam told her, "Then changed the subject when I pressed about who the friend was. He said he's taking some of the money he gets from the sale of his paintings and putting it into a scholarship of some sort. Hadn't really worked out the details yet."

It hardly surprised Liz that Michael would be doing something to give back to the community he'd come to love and be a part of and while Michael had never been one for the confines of the classroom, he knew how important education was. He also knew that while Liz never regretted much in her life, even the bad things, she did regret never realizing her dream of going to college. During their balcony chats after closing the bar, Liz mused about how by now she thought she might be interning at some big lab or hospital, making her name in the field of molecular biology. Some of Liz Parker's dreams still lived inside Liz Jeffries.

She and Michael had discussed her taking some classes or even a lecture or two at the university, just to keep her mind sharp. And since sculpting wasn't really working out like Michael had liked, she suggested he take a photography class, given his eye for things around New Orleans. Who better to capture the great lady's children and charms?

Miriam, Sweet and Liz moved onto the next painting and Sweet let out a small chuckle, I'll bet my fool heart that this one is going up in the bar."

Liz, with a tearful smile, looked up at the painting she knew would be her favorite and Michael's. Titled Finding Ulysses, it was Liz standing in the doorway of the bar the night she'd walked back into Michael's life. She was small and weary, but still beautiful, and now free.

God, why had he kept all of this from her? To protect himself? Her? How could she blame him for hiding? Hadn't she done her fair share of that?

Liz looked away from the paintings and searched for Michael, finding him standing in a darkened corner by himself watching her reactions to the paintings. The boy, man, who preferred to remain in the shadows was now staring out from them, daring her to deny his feelings for her. The proof of his love splashed up on the canvas in the red of her hockey jersey and the blackness of her hair. All that love she saw on the canvas now danced in his eyes and she wondered why she'd been so blind to it before.

By some unknown force she found herself walking towards Michael, when all she wanted to do was get out of that gallery. She wanted to cry, weep like a baby at the privilege of being the object of Michael's love, the thing he cherished, not worshiped. And the weeping model would ruin his show for him. She should have just run, but she just kept walking towards him.

Liz felt the weight of Michael's love, and she suddenly felt very weak, not physically, but emotionally. Her whole world, idea of what love was supposed to be had just been turned on its axis by this man. It was as if she was opening her eyes for the first time and seeing what love was supposed to look like. Michael.

Love through Michael's eyes was bright and almost painful to look at, in a blissful way. He was opening her arms and showing her what love was supposed to feel like and it's power was overwhelming and frightening. Love through Michael's eyes was intense and was more than just to be felt it was to be lived. It was to accept something so uncontrollable into your life and let it guide you. It was trust, never something easily given by Michael, and he was giving it to her without apology.

She felt herself breaking apart and tried to pull any lingering strength she could to just remain upright as she kept her slow and steady journey to Michael, holding his eyes. She thought she'd known how Michael felt about her, but never on this level. Not until she saw it in the medium he felt best expressed his soul. Loving her caused him pain, but only because he was unable to adequately express it in the way she felt she deserved it.

Liz chastised herself once again for not telling him about the divorce. That her selfish need to prove to him that she was his completely had caused Michael so much pain. She believed that in order for Michael to love her completely she had to be totally free of Max, when it was so obvious that despite their unspoken agreement, Michael would have her anyway he could. All she had to do was ask.

She was also angry at him. In a purely childish way, she would admit. Here she thought she had the ultimate proof of her love and devotion for him. Her filing for divorce and then he had to go an out do her by making her his muse. By telling the world he loved her, but knowing only the true meaning behind each brush stroke would hit home with her. She loved that he'd chosen her as his muse, but a little warning would have been nice.

Now she stood a mere inches from him, not hiding the tears she'd been trying to keep at bay. God, she loved this man. This frustrating, complex, sexy, talented, deep, intense man. She loved him with her whole being and she was so frightened that she wouldn't be able to convey that enough. Not like he had.

Liz stood before Michael, remembering her words to Sweet that morning. That all she wanted to do was tell the stubborn jackass that she loved him, and now she was sure it just wasn't enough to tell him. That he wouldn't see that she ran just as deep as he did. That despite being married to Max, he, Michael, was the one who coursed through her veins occupied her heart and melded with her soul. How could he think she'd leave him when he'd managed to not only capture his love for her on those canvases, but hers for him? The jerk.

"Liz?" Michael asked softly, seeing she had something to say to him. Something through the tears that ran down her face. "Do you not like them? I mean I probably should have asked you..."

Liz held her hand up asking him to stop talking, "Michael, they're beautiful." her breath caught with the sob that had lurched into her throat. She could hold her tears in any longer, "They are so beautiful... and you... God.. you..."

"I'm what Liz?" Michael asked, dying to know what Liz had to say. She looked like she was feeling so much. Was it enough to get her to stay with him?

Liz looked up at him with water filled eyes, "You are a jackass, Michael."

Michael watched her, run out of the gallery stunned by what he'd heard. This wasn't how he'd thought she'd react. He thought she'd see everything and understand. Had he just pushed her out of his life forever. Were the paintings to much. Had his love, like Max's, suffocated her?

Damning his admirers Michael took the lead weights that seemed to have kept his legs form moving the second she'd turned away and began running after her. He was stopped by a strong hand and was about to shove his obstacle out of the way when he realized the hand was connected to his surrogate father, Sweet.

"Let her go, Michael." he said insistently. "Can't expect someone to experience love like yours, undiluted, and not be overwhelmed. She'll come to you when she's ready."

Michael couldn't help the tears that stung his eyes, "Jesus Sweet... I'm losing her."

Sweet shook his head, "You didn't do anything wrong, Son. Trust me."

"If I didn't, then why did she run?" Michael asked, still trying to move forward to go after her.

"Why did you?" Sweet asked, referring to Michael's hasty retreat that morning.

Michael relaxed his body as the answer hit him, "Because its terrifying to love her this much."

~*~

Hours passed and after the show was over Michael, Miriam and Sweet headed back to Ulysses in hopes that Liz might return there. The bar had been closed that night because of Michael's show, so there were no patrons to fuss over. However, Sweet and Miriam were getting dizzy watching Michael pace back and forth with worry about Liz. Where she was. What she was thinking. If she was safe.

Sweet and Miriam sat at the bar sipping warm brandy, tempted to pour a snifter full down Michael's throat if only to get the boy to relax. But years ago Michael explained that he didn't drink. Period. And it wasn't until Liz told Sweet about Hank that they thought they understood why.

Sweet rubbed at the arm Liz had kept a tight grip on that night feeling a slight, dull twinge of pain that had decided to reside there. Miriam looked over at her sometime paramour with a furrowed brow.

"You okay there. Sweet?"

Sweet nodded and chuckled, "Oh sure. I just think Liz held onto my arm a little too tight this evening. Who knew she had such a strong grip."

Miriam laughed along with him and they're gaze once again fell to Michael. He'd stopped pacing and now stood at the glass door entrance to the bar, searching for any sign of Liz.

"Sweet, if Liz doesn't come back, that boy is gonna die of a broken heart, I just know it." Miriam told him, a near mother's concern touching her voice.

Sweet shook his head, "She'll be back. I can feel it in my heart." he moved a hand to tap his heart in emphasis then returned the hand to his sore arm.

Michael rested his forehead against the glass door, cursing that even with his heightened senses he couldn't find Liz in the dark. The not knowing was killing him. He might have said his heart was breaking, but the pieces, at this point were merely cracked, waiting for a negative word from Liz to completely shatter to the ground.

Michael shook his head, he could hardly blame Liz for calling him a jackass. He'd broken a promise to her that he'd made a month ago. They'd sat up on the balcony and he promised her that if, at some point, she felt the need to move on, he wouldn't try and stop her. Yet, with his paintings, his silent declaration, he'd done just that.

But how could he live with himself and not at least try to get Liz to stay. He 'd also told her what was his was hers. How was he to know that would come to encompass so many things? That not having been able to share anything with her over the years they'd been apart, had led him to share everything, and now maybe too much.

Michael had been so lost in thought he didn't notice movement from the sidewalk until, a moment later, he was face to face with Liz on the other side of the glass. Her eyes were puffy with her tears, and her arms were wrapped around her waist. It was my no means a cold night, but Michael swore he saw goose bumps on her skin.

Michael swallowed thickly, waiting for some sign from her. Something that told him where she stood with them. If he would always be stuck inside looking out at her or if all he had to do was open the door and let her in.

His answer came when her eyes fell to the door handle, a silent request to open the door and let her in. Michael did so, unsure of why his hand moved so slowly to do so. Maybe a part of him was still nervous about what she might have to say to him. But hadn't he been running scared his whole life? Wasn't it time to be brave?

Michael turned the lock and opened the door part way, holding it ajar for her. She had to take the next step...

The next step, was unfortunately taken for her when the sound of a glass shattering on the floor tingled in both their ears. The sounds of Miriam's gasp and strangled scream came next and both Michael and Liz turned to see what the commotion was about, only to find Sweet , hand over his heart slumping off the barstool and onto the floor. Agony consumed the old man's face and his breathing became shallow. It seemed the pain he'd been feeling in his heart that evening had little to do with love.

"Oh God!" Miriam practically screamed, panic setting in as she realize what was happening to her friend, "Sweet, what...Michael! Liz! Call 911!"

~*~

TBC…