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"No, you can't kiss me yet," I say.
At his puzzled expression, I bring out my hands from behind my back and hold them out to him. In my palm are two gray rings woven out of thread. He puts one between his fingers, and for a moment seems unable to speak.
"You like them?" I ask nervously. "I just wanted us to have something resembling rings—”
"They're perfect."
He's the first to push the ring on my finger, and I hold my breath, my whole body shaking with fulfilling, exhilarating happiness. As I push the larger ring on his finger, I see the thread has started to rot away already. The ring will wither away before long. Just like me. Perhaps it's a good thing. No permanent reminder of me. This way, he can recover quicker after I’m gone. Tristan's lips clash against mine when I secure the ring on his finger. His kiss isn't gentle or restrained like the ones grooms give their brides. He cups my head in his palms, his tongue ravaging mine. He kisses me like he knows he doesn't have many kisses left.
Afterward I ask, "Can you bring the spines?"
"Just a sec." He places the pile of spines on one of the old magazines I must have re-read at least ten times. My vision is so blurry it’s hard to distinguish one letter from the other on the magazine cover. That's when I know my fever is impossibly high. My heart pounding in my throat, I focus harder on the letters. A stream of hot tears bursts down my cheeks. I hope he thinks it's from emotion.
"Should I do yours first?" Tristan asks.
"Absolutely."
"How about I put the first letter of my name?”
"No. I want your whole name. It's beautiful."
"Are you sure?"
I nod.
"All right. Here we go."
While Tristan puts the dripping tip of the spine on my upper arm, I study his features. The arch of his brows, the curl of his long lashes, his lips. I want to memorize every detail about him, while I can still see through the blurs. Feeling the spine on my skin doesn't hurt at all. It gives me a giddy feeling of completion that is replaced by horror when Tristan puts another spine in my hand, saying, "Your turn. I want to get your whole name, too."
"No," I say, terrified. "Why not just the first letter or something else? You said natives use symbols sometimes…"
"I want us to match. Go on," he beckons, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing his upper arm. I mentally curse as I write my name on his skin. I shouldn't have brought tattooing up. A permanent reminder of my name is the last thing he needs. I only want him to remember how I made him feel. Nothing more.
I feel dizzy when I finish, and lie on the floor, with my head in his lap. I close my eyes as he threads his fingers through my hair. Each movement of his fingers, each breath seems to last an eternity. I no longer resent I won't have more time for moments like this. In fact, I no longer feel like I am out of time.
When you are on the brink of the great unknown, when you're so close to the edge of the abyss you can almost bite into the darkness, time acquires something of a magical quality to it. You start measuring time in seconds, and all of a sudden, each second lasts forever.
Death has its beauty.
It makes you see the eternity in every second; it makes you see every moment’s perfection instead of searching an eternity for the perfect moment.
Time moves differently—beautifully—for those who only have smidgens of it left. But there is no beauty in death for those left behind. When I open my eyes, I find Tristan looking at me. I try to avoid it, because there is no mistaking the pain in his eyes. I know that pain. I remember how it felt to watch over him, thinking how lucky he was for being the one who got to leave first, and how unlucky I was to be the one left behind. I am the lucky one now. The fever exhausts me, and I soon have to fight to keep my eyes open.
"I love you, Aimee," Tristan whispers. "So much." Cracks shatter his voice, finding their way deep into him. I know how those cracks feel. When he was sick, they splintered me too, in that terrifying way only pain can. Now I’m too weak to move, there is no pretending. Nowhere to run from the truth. Or in my case, the end.
In a blur, I raise my hand, touching his cheek. I find tears on it. Lowering my hand on his chest, I realize he's shaking.
He's losing it.
I'm glad the fever is tampering with my vision, because I can't see him like this. Not when I know there is nothing I can do to alleviate the p
ain of this man who has given me so much.
"I love you too," I say in a weak whisper. He hugs me to his chest. Despite the fact that I am barely aware of my surroundings, the rhythm of his heartbeats reaches me. Clear and loud. They sound like scattered fragments of hopes and dreams. With a shift that claims my very last drops of energy, I push myself up to meet his lips, hoping I can transfer some of my peace to him.
As I feel the warmth of his lips, I become greedy. Suddenly, an eternity is not enough, and his cracks become mine. The fragments slashing at him slash at me too, until tears stream on my cheeks as well, mingling with his. The fervor of our lips is not enough to build a shield around us. Inside it, we would be protected from the truth.
I give myself completely to him with this kiss, like I have with all the kisses before. Every kiss, caress, and word of his has claimed a part of me; now I belong more to him than to myself. One stolen kiss, one gifted smile, one shared memory at a time.
