When they got home, they mixed drinks. They’d agreed there’d be no tears, and there were none. But the mood was dark. No doubt.
They sat on their balcony, overlooking the Atlantic, listened to seagulls screech while the sun trekked slowly up and over.
It had been a bad year, they agreed, after a while, sipping mojitos, their gazes unseeing, turned inward.
The worst, actually, they said to each other, laughed bitterly, clinked their glasses ironically, like they were celebrating.
They did not talk about what the doctor had said. About the one. Earlier that morning. Or the other doctor about the other. Some weeks earlier.
They were old. They had much to be grateful for. No point complaining. No point saying any of those things that had been said unspoken between them so many times.
Halfway through a second pitcher, chewing nachos, their slow conversation took an unexpected turn.
They decided to go on a trip, even though, when they mentioned it, it seemed like it had all been decided beforehand. Like they’d always known they’d go on this trip, had forgotten about it, only remembered now.
The prospect excited them. They grinned while they spoke, and the clouds overhead broke away or it just felt that way.
Maybe it was the mojitos, but the mood lightened.
They agreed on Rome. Of course. It had to be Rome. It was a no-brainer. They’d been there many times and loved it. And then they said Madrid, too, because it would be Christmas soon, and they liked Madrid over Christmas.
One more time, they said to each other, eyes sparkling. One more trip to these places they loved, these places they’d fallen in love with like they themselves had fallen in love long ago. Because it felt right. Because the heart had its reasons that reason knows not of. There were other places, but they chose these two because they weren’t sure how much time they had.
And then there was the third. To end their trip. And this one was tricky, because they’d never been there. But they figured somewhere on the Indian Ocean. Somewhere tropical. Where the water was warm.
Over the next few weeks, they sorted their paperwork. Spoke to an attorney. Put their apartment up for sale. Quite a bit of housekeeping. They left soon thereafter.
They had a lock-up-and-go, and so they locked it up and went, took an Uber to the airport, flew first class for the first time, absolutely loved it.
They held hands like they hadn’t done in a very long time. They smiled and made jokes and laughed. Two silly old men. It felt like the first time they’d traveled together. When everything seemed new.
In Rome they took a suite in a five-star hotel, telling each other they might as well, they had the money, no reason to hold on to it.
In the mornings they slept in and lingered over cappuccinos and lazy late breakfasts. They walked all over the city, watched opera and ballet, got tipsy in bars. They tried to see places they hadn’t seen before, and visited the familiar and its familiar memories. They were slow, of course. It was not like when they were younger. They walked a bit, sat at lot, rubbed their knees, carped about their backs, walked a bit more. They often stayed in the whole day, lounged about in their pajamas, ordered room service, watched movies, talked.
At night, in bed, they held each other, and each saw in the other not the present but all the beauty of their collective past.
They ate all the things they loved to eat in Rome, of which there were many. They drank Peroni and lots of Chianti. They listened to the city. It had much to say. It had seen so many ages, come and go. It breathed at the pace of entire human lives. Breathe in, you’re born, breathe out, you’re gone. Wink of an eye. But a marvelous wink. It shouted quietly and whispered loudly about things long gone, and things present and beautiful, young and new. Its very antiquity promised the future.
And this gave them courage, made them feel like even the fleeting persists forever.
At night, they watched light shows on ancient facades, listened to festive music blasting in public squares. They marveled at all the beautiful, bustling life, like the world was a trillion imperfections somehow pulled together into this flawless whole.
Beneath the surface, beyond the obvious, an entire fairy world.
They savored every moment like it was a fine rare thing.
They’d always loved Rome. But never before quite as much as this time.
On their last night there, they woke at two in the morning, walked the quiet night streets all the way to Trevi, sat at the fountain. Just the two of them in the cold-cold air. They listened to the fountain’s chatter, to its fine music of tranquility. They held each other, exchanged papery-lipped kisses.
A couple of youngsters walked by. Jeered and pointed.
But they were used to this.
They were not sad when they left Rome. They’d decided not to be sad. There was nothing to be sad about, they said to each other. Not for them. They’d decided to give nothing but their gratitude.
Madrid was freezing. Or so it seemed to their African temperaments. They loved the cold even though they felt it like something gnawing at their old man bodies.
They ate churros and snickered recounting how they’d worried about getting fat back when they were middle-aged, when they started fighting all the inevitabilities that time brought to bodies. They thought of their own young vanity, and part of them missed it, and part of them was happy the burden was gone.
On the plazas they watched teenagers walk about in t-shirts and skinny jeans while they shivered and rubbed their hands. They remembered when they, too, walked about in t-shirts, looking at old people shivering, feeling the future and all its promise warm and deep in their bones.
They ate tapas and drank vermouth. At night they walked among beautiful people under colorful lights and everything buzzed and brimmed around them.
Magic. It was all magic. All the world and everything in it, seemed like magic.
They were tired at night. The spooned and slept deeply and forgot about doctors and drugs they’d decided not to take.
Then they left for the warmth and comfort of the Indian Ocean. For an African equatorial delight halfway between Europe and what had once been home.
Their thoughts did not linger on the places they’d just left. They did not think ahead. They had a date in mind, and knew the day would invariably come. They kept their heads in the here and now and with each other, even though it wasn’t always easy.
They drank tall cocktails and swatted at mosquitos and simmered in humidity. They tried to cool off in an ocean that seemed as hot as the air. They hunted for breezes and shade and rooms with air conditioning.
It was all very scenic. The ocean an azure mirror, the horizon breathless blue. There were swaying palms, heaped plates of food, fruit sweet and oozing with juices. Everything seemed generous, abundant.
When the appointed evening came, it was as beautiful as every other evening they’d had on the island. There was a slight breeze in the sultry air. Palms whispered like they were sharing secrets. The ocean lapped, calm and flat, mirror-black, like a lake.
They had supper on their balcony where they watched the quiet night. Arrabbiata with lots of chili, lots of good cheese. An old favorite. They looked at pictures on their phones and reminisced and laughed. They lit a tall candle and drank wine.
There were a great many things they said to each other in between their giddy chattering. They said they love each other. They said they are content. Life is short and very beautiful, they toasted.
There were many things they didn’t say, but that the candle said when it sputtered and died in the early morning. They got up and left their room, hand-in-hand, never looked back. Behind them, the door clicked shut with conclusive certainty.
They took the stairs down. A receptionist smiled. They smiled back. They walked past the swimming pool with its little tables and empty ashtrays. Ahead, the quiet black ocean.
The beach waited. It had always known they would come.
For a long time, they sat on the cool sand in the hot breeze and listened to the world around them. It spoke, but they did not. It held them, and they accepted its embrace.
Somewhere in time, their eyes met and they got up and walked into the water.
They swam. Slowly. Unhurriedly.
They swam deeper and deeper, all the way back to the beginning. They swam toward youth, childhood, birth, toward those early restless days, wondering whether they would find anything beyond.
Sometimes the water became choppy. They did not fight it. It whisked them along. Such churnings never lasted, they knew.
They swam over old pains, too. Occasional shadows circling the deep. Far below. Barely visible. Toothless, long-dead haunts.
They swam to the day they’d met, and then a current found them and carried them far beyond that.
There were many faces in the water. But these were transient. Faces eroded by time. Sand castles backwashed into the past. The faces spoke. Their words were wind. There was passion in some of the faces. Anger, adoration, fear, love, all covered by the ageless sea.
Together, they swam over a million radiant memories, like scattered lantern fish.
It was night, but the sun shone golden through the water that took them.
Into the deep. Together.
Daniel Burnbridge is a South African author of speculative fiction, with work published or forthcoming in several magazines and anthologies, including Journeys Beyond the Fantastical Horizon (Galaxy’s Edge), Amazing Stories and Aurealis. He is the winner of the 2023 Mike Resnick Memorial Award for best science fiction short story by a new author.
Published 6/5/25