I Thought You Would Never

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Here's how it was supposed to happen:

After college, I packed up and moved. Fled. Flew to you, literally and figuratively. When I got off the plane and past security and saw you standing there waiting for me, the only thing I could think about was how, this time, I wouldn't be leaving again in a week. I was here to stay this time. I was home.

I got a job, maybe at the hospital near where you lived, maybe not. You'd gotten your degree about the same time I had -- maybe a little before, maybe a little after, the details aren't important. We got married. Six, seven years waiting for life to begin, and now it finally had.

We had an apartment and a cat -- or two, or three, though I would've balked at four. Life wasn't perfect, and it wasn't always easy or even pleasant, but we managed to muddle through somehow. Sometimes in the evenings we would watch Star Trek together and I would pity all the rock stars and kings and millionaires of the world because they weren't here, arms wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat, your breath.

We never had kids, of course. Neither of us ever wanted them in the first place; and our lives were full enough without them. We never needed them. We had each other.

Eventually we left the apartment for a house somewhere, a small one, enough room for you and me and the cats. Maybe even a place on the street you showed me once -- remember? -- sweet little homes on garden lots with tall, leafy shade trees lined up by the curb. Walking distance to the international market, all the Pocky we could carry. You used to pass that street on the bus and dream. Wherever we wound up, though, it was home.

We grew older together, and it turned out to be as simple and good as we had always imagined, back when we were stuck thousands of miles away from each other. Life went on, and we went with it, and it was the same as it had ever been since it started that day we married. Mostly happy. Mostly good.

Eventually we both retired, still together, still you and me and maybe a cat. You were my world. I was happy to be yours as long as you wanted. We had forty years, fifty? -- not much more, probably, I was already edging towards 30 by the time I graduated -- but we had decades, and we never fell apart like my parents did, never drifted away like your parents did. It was like a fairy-tale romance, if there was ever a fairy tale with more frogs than princes.

But eventually, of course, one of us died. Maybe both. Maybe there was a gas leak, both of us going peacefully in our sleep. Our bodies found together with your head still on my shoulder. Better that than the alternative. If it came down to that, though, I'd be willing to be the survivor. Waking up each morning, knowing that this is yet another day in a long, long string of them without you: it hurts more than anything else I've ever experienced; and I've had an organ slowly fail, undiagnosed, over the course of years. I wouldn't want you to have to go through this, and so I'd be willing to be the survivor, again. At least I'd be at the end of my life, instead of still staring decades more of it down. Nobody bats an eye when one eighty-year-old dies and the other follows a week later.

That's how it was supposed to happen, plus or minus a few details: you, me, a good half-century of happy married life together.

Apparently it would've made us Pluggers, but who cares about that?


Way to go, Pluggers. I know that you're better than me because you don't bother with ridiculous citified things like computers, cable TV, paved roads, or basic sanitation; but do you have to rub it in by reminding me that you get to have your Twu Wuvs not die young, too? I mean, really. Apparently I missed the one where Brookins illustrated "Pluggers are big mean jerks".

All of this fic is true, or at least as true as an alternate history of the future can be. I have school notebooks going back to about 2001 where the back pages, unneeded for class, are filled with daydreams of a similar nature... though of course there was more hope involved when it was still, y'know, actually possible. Mine is a sad and kind of pathetic story. I'm just glad I got my gothy-poetry phase out in high school, so I haven't had to sink quite that far again.

"Mostly happy. Mostly good." is a bit I have lifted from Neil Gaiman's "The Wedding Present," from Smoke and Mirrors. It's in the introduction, not in the table of contents. It's very good, although I can't really read it anymore. Maybe because it's too good. Way to go, Gaiman.

Sleeper

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Shelly sighed, then prodded at the sleeping form of her husband. "Nate." Another poke, harder this time. "Nate. Nathan." At last he twitched, uttered a particularly loud snore, and then looked blearily up at her. "It's nine-thirty."

Nate stretched luxuriously on the couch, uttering a huge yawn, then blinked at her a few more times, scratching idly at his side. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to bed now, Nate."

His eyes cleared slightly. "Oh, nine-thirty PM?"

"Either that or you've been napping for fifteen hours," she answered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Man. That was a gooood nap," he said, smiling as he gave another stretch. "It's great just having a nice relaxing evening, Shel, you should try it sometime."

Shelly's mouth twitched into a brief frown, which went unnoticed by her husband. "If I ever get an evening where I have the time, maybe I'll try it."

Nate rose from the couch and ambled out of the living room. "Bedtime, huh?" He yawned again. "Sounds good to me; I'm beat."

Financial Advisor

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He'd hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but she followed him into the study. Too bad. He'd been hoping to have some time alone tonight -- the new issue of American Rifleman had arrived today, and there was an article on the Ruger that had caught his eye -- but apparently his wife had other plans.

"And another thing," she said, signaling that there was indeed to be another chapter of the current tirade. Joy. "I know you got a raise at the plant last week, because Caitlyn Marsh told me her husband got one too, and don't think I haven't noticed that you're not actually bringing home any more money! I suppose you're spending all the extra at that little club you and your friends go to." He started to protest, but she rolled smoothly on. "Well, I expect that to stop! It's bad enough you spend any money at all there, when it's such a dirty, sinful habit, but you won't be lying to me on top of it! You bring that money home!"

"Now, hold on!" he interjected. He scrubbed a palm over his face. "Look, Lonnie Marsh got his raise last month because he's on the floor, and all the floor workers got their raises last month. Us guys in shipping are in for a raise, but it doesn't actually start until next year." He sighed, knowing it was useless to try reasoning with her, but forging ahead anyway. "I bring home every penny that I make -- yes, every bit, don't tell me I'm lyin' about this because I'm not -- and I reckon I don't waste nearly as much at the Flamingo as you do on your lottery tickets and your goddamn church bingo."

The color drained from her face, and she gasped as if slapped. "That's the Lord's name, mister! You watch your language!"

"Fine," he replied, irritated. "I'll watch my language in here, and you," he pointed out at the hallway, "go watch something else out there." As she turned and began to stalk away, he called after her, "And next time you hear something from Caitlyn, try makin' sure she knows what she's talking about before you come yell at me!"

Dates

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"Oh." He rubbed nervously at his chin. "Er. Look, I'm sorry, you know I don't mean anything by -- "

She raised an eyebrow, her expression cool, though he could tell she was genuinely bothered. "I know you don't mean anything by forgetting." She busied herself with the bookcase, straightening a few books that had been shelved hastily. Probably by him. "I'm beginning to think you didn't mean anything by anything, really."

"Sweetie -- "

"I don't think I'm particularly high-maintenance," she interrupted, not looking at him. "I don't care if you forget my birthday, or our anniversary -- hell, sometimes I forget them myself. I don't ask for anything for Valentine's Day, or Sweetest Day, or whatever holiday the greeting card companies have invented this week." Her eyes met his, and he realized that she was fighting back tears. "But this one thing, this one one-time thing that I ask of you? One evening ever, and that's it? Apparently it's too much to ask. Which makes me wonder if maybe I'm just not worth it to you. Or worth anything."

He took a step closer to her, meaning to try to comfort her, but thought better of it. "Look, I'm sorry I forgot. I know this... concert thing... is important to you -- and you're important to me -- I just... forgot, is all."

She looked down at the floor, her growing anger giving way to a sadness that hurt him far worse. "He's one of the greatest cello players in the world," she said quietly. "And I only got to study under him for three years before mom died and we had to move back to Wisconsin. I could've been up there making music for people all over the world, just like him. Now all I can do is hope he'll give a performance somewhere I can actually afford to get to, so I can sit in the audience with all the other nobodies." Then she looked back up at her husband. The tears were falling freely now. "Except I can't even do that, because you didn't bother to get the tickets. Were you too busy fishing with your buddies? Was that it?"

It was his turn to look at the floor now, unable to meet her eyes. "I deserve that."

"Which I guess means 'yes'," she replied.

Belt

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She was silent on the drive home, not even saying anything when he let go with an earth-shattering belch at the stoplight. "Damn good steak there," he added as commentary, but still she said nothing.

They pulled up in the driveway and got out of the car, and walked into the house, and he plopped down on the couch while still she said nothing; she only hung up their coats in the front closet.

Finally he seemed to notice her silence, and as she sat down primly on the other end of the couch, he gave a loud harrumph. "Somethin' wrong, dear?"

She did not look at him, but merely stared straight ahead. "Nothing much," she replied in a voice that was carefully measured, but still obviously strained. "Only that you positively mortified me in front of everyone in the restaurant tonight."

"What'd I do now?" he growled irritably; she flinched a bit, but went on:

"That shameful display of loosening your belt... in front of Reverend Shoney, even! You know his wife will be telling everyone about our family's 'poor manners' now!"

He nodded slowly. "Well, ayup, I reckon my belt couldn't hold out too well against that steak." Then his voice dropped. "But there is something else a belt is good for. You understand?"

She lowered her eyes quickly to the floor, and said nothing else. After a moment he nodded again. "You let me worry about my behavior, dear," he told her. "You just keep an eye on yours."

A Successful Marriage

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Sarah laid the recipe cards back on the counter. "What do you mean, 'I cook both of them great'? Don't you care what I make tonight? At all?"

"Nope, don't care at all," Al replied, before recognizing her deceptively calm demeanor. "I mean -- aw, honey, you know I don't mean it that way -- "

"What way?" Sarah began furiously stuffing the cards back into her recipe file, then slammed the lid shut. "What way did you mean it, then, huh? That you just don't care? That no matter what I cook, that no matter what I do, it'll never be as good as your mother?" She glared at him. "Is that it?"

Al covered his eyes with one hand. "Now come on, sweetie, you know that isn't what I meant to say... I just meant that you can... you can make whatever you want for dinner. Really." He offered her a smile. "Whatever you want."

Sarah nodded curtly. "Fine. What I want," she said, stalking into the living room, "is to go out." She came back into view through the kitchen door, purse on her shoulder and keys in one hand. "I'll be back later tonight. Or maybe not. If you want dinner, you can go ask your mother to cook for you." And with that she was gone, not even bothering to slam the front door behind her.