Clare met him at the airport, he was brown, as expected – of course he was brown, having just spent three months writing in India. There he was, her beautiful Luca.
He lolled towards her, a bag slung across his shoulders. His hair was too long, a mess hanging across his eyes and his clothes, jeans and t-shirt, were tattered and emitting an aroma of days spent perspiring in the sun, smoking the various concoctions and dreaming up idle words, words depicting a carefree existence and travel, or more aptly and quite easily, words depicting a stoned youth. He smiled, kissed her on the cheek and in response she draped her arms around his neck, his beautiful wan neck – the neck she so loved to kiss, after three months, the neck that was at last where it was supposed to be, with her.
‘You’re so thin’ she whispered. ‘I should go to India, it seems the perfect diet.’
He winced and took a step back and shook his head, ‘No, funny enough it wasn’t the food or water, I have just had back pains for the past three weeks.’ And with that, Clare watched her world fade away, as though watching a ballet, lights out and the music berating tears.

Of course at the time she took it for just that - she understood it to be a pain, what eighty percent of all beings get, a discomfort, an ache jabbing at the back. And so she smiled, and cooed sympathy. They went home, he ate with gusto – she made him steak with pepper sauce and all the trimmings, fed him beer and questioned him,
‘What are the people like? Where did you go? Can I see your writing? Have you photos?’ the ubiquitous questions, over and over and he calm, ate. His stomach, though, had shrunk from the limited food and he managed just half of the steak, disappointed he stared at it as though betrayed.
Clare shook her head, ‘Don’t worry; when you are hungry again I will make you more. I am just so happy that you are back!’
‘Babe, I am so happy to be back, you are beautiful.’ He kissed her softly on the cheek, inhaled in her smell, clean, soap, fresh, perfume, a smell so inviting but he was tired, his back was, once again, sore. He took a few neurofens and went to sleep.

When the euphoria had died down, had escaped to realism and left love true, Clare noticed the exactness of Luca’s weight loss, had thought that if it was just plain ‘old-fashioned’ back ache, why was he emaciated and constantly weary? With fear slowly carving its way near her, she one day crawled besides him as he lay under the covers sleeping, she put her arm around his fragile body, and for a few minutes listened to the breathing, the catch of air in his throat, the occasional murmur he omitted and with him she followed, she suddenly knew, with him, tears streaming down her face, she counted breaths, and soon fell asleep. When they woke, together, on cue, she asked him – dry eyes, wanting the answer to be negative.
She asked, ‘Are you sick’ simple.
He stroked her face, outlined her lips with his fingers, kissed her eyes, he told her with every movement what she did not want to hear. And with their tears becoming one, they fell asleep arms around one another, legs draped, for the moment escaping to a waiting sleep.

‘I have cancer.’ The words, falling out of his mouth, the mouth sipping tea, the eyes, darting back and forth and ignoring her.
The word she knew so well. Clare sat and stirred sugar into her tea, two spoons becoming four, calm down. She had grown up with it, smelt it and watched it.
‘Baby, I have only just found out. I mean, when I got back I went to the doctor.’
The silence sang, it thumped, and they sat – their tea, they would remember that – their tea.
‘What cancer is it?’
‘Colon.’ Luca looked up and smiled at Clare, ‘It’s in stage 3, and it’s quite progressive, apparently its quite hard to find symptoms in the early stages, and so the bugger is now quite far on.’ He laughed, belittling the disease, sipping his tea and shaking his head, a smile – sinister and somewhat bemused plastered to his face.

She watched him go, from afar. Instead of drifting close and whispering words of love, she let him drift away – as though slowly trying to grope fingers. Anger erupted within her, despise, she knew it was unfounded but yet could not stand that he could accept it, could defy it, he just lay down and let his body get devoured, let his beauty get diminished. And Clare, whom he loved, he would just stare at her, his blue eyes dead before their time, though not much before, just stare at her – his blue eyes. He would wonder why she bothered to be around, leave like her soul he thought. Give me a death of dignity, but he could not speak, and together on opposite ends of the room they inhabited one another’s eyes, they searched for their loved one, they clung on with a breath, a last breath of air. Hope, sprung eternal.


The smell of disinfectant was nauseating, and in the background she heard the whish of a mop against tiles and felt eyes laid upon her – eyes that were dried with tears and dragged down with bags – a son had been lost. She leant against the doorframe, and trying to shrug off the silence she looked at the man she loved, stared at his body that was at last, in death, peaceful. She heard a strangled voice behind her and she shook her head, ignoring the words she remained silent and continued to stare ahead.

Their actions were habits, they existed together mainly in an eerie silence altered at times by sudden memories, a smell, a shirt, a meal, Clare chose not to watch any television, instead she would sit at the kitchen table, where she had watched him as he ate, where they shared secrets – good and bad, she would sit and sip slowly at her wine and attempt – though futile it was – to numb her pain. She could hair his mother, Anna, on the couch, the sniffs, occasional sobs, and in the background as though mocking, the canned laughter from the TV.

Clare felt numb as she knelt on the pew, as she stood up again and held an old, shaking hand in hers. The priest was speaking, but she could not decipher words, she did not want to be there. She would rather be out, in a bar, so she could continue the numbness. But besides her, Anna stood her posture drooped, tears journeying down her face, she was alone now – outlived them all, and Clare – out of habit, without any emotion in her actions, patted Anna on her back, knowing she was upset but having no sympathy, just patting, as a reflex.

The look of pity! Clare wanted to scream and tell them to laugh, get drunk, say something other than sorry. She was tired of people bowing their heads at her, of lowering their voices. Eventually, taking a bottle of red wine, she escaped and discovered at last, after a manic run, a patch of grass far away, far enough. She sat and greedily gulped down the wine, and with calm hands lit a cigarette.

She heard footsteps behind her. She recognised the smell. Clare closed her eyes, praying that no words would be said, that instead silence would ensue. Prayers were clearly of no use.
“Where were you?”
Clare closed her eyes, sucked heavily on her cigarette.
“Where were you?” The voice was strong, angry – no longer soft and strangulated.
“He needed you! You were all he wanted!”
Anna stepped forward, her shadow looming over Clare.
“It hurts a mother to admit to herself that your son does not need you. It hurts more than anything in my long life. When I look into his dying eyes and know that he’d rather it were you there. But where the hell were you Clare?”
Anna rocked back and forth, “He needed you damn you! He needed you!”
There was silence, Clare sipped at the wine and without thinking, handed it to Anna who almost gratefully accepted. Eventually, after Clare lit yet another cigarette she shook her head, and whispered “But I needed him too” she closed her eyes ignoring the tears, the taste of salt, her own.
“If it helps you at all, in your grief, then you can know that I have died with him. I am useless alive, he was my life Anna. I am dead” she gulped the remaining wine, and then turned to his mother, Anna, with a sadistic smile.