The countdown continues to the release of The Arimathean. Still shooting for the first week of October(fingers crossed).
In the meantime here's a little taste...Alex remembers Sophia
And so it went for the most wonderful four weeks of his life until one day, a Friday after a particularly grueling session in the gym. As they did every day, they walked along the Charles River in the general direction of her home, rambling, trying to delay the inevitable parting.
They found an empty bench and sat, her hand finding his. His thumb caressed her fingers and in a moment that he forever after wished he could take back, he lifted her chin and turned her face to his.
His desire laid waste to his honor. His lips took hers and as he reached around her, to the small of her back, pulling her into him, her arms slid around his neck. He lost himself in the feel of her lips, her taste, and the feel of her back as his hands moved up her spine. She kissed him back, hard, searching, her fingers tangled in his hair. His hand moved along the base of her neck to the back of her head. He filled his hand with her hair and broke their kiss. Burying his face in her hair, he inhaled the scent of it, wanting this to last forever.
Taking her face in both hands, he kissed her once more, this time gently savoring it, as if he already knew what was coming. She pulled back and raised her fingers to his lips. She held them there for several seconds and a tear formed. She slowly shook her head, stood, and hurried down the path toward her home.
Alex called after her, but she broke into a slow jog, cut through the trees and climbed an over-walk above Storrow Drive. She disappeared down an alley on the other side of the street as he stood fists clinched.
The next day an envelope lay on the floor of his entryway, pushed through the mail slot. It wasn’t postmarked, only his name written on it. He recognized her writing. In a crashing moment of longing, he knew what was inside.
He didn’t open it then. He walked for an hour not really knowing where he was going, the cane in his hand heavier and his limp slowing him more. He finally ended up on the Harvard bridge over the Charles.
There he read it. When he was done, he fought off the tears. He beat them back by telling himself he had known this would come, that she would be faithful and that in the end she would reject him and what they were doing. Deep down, he knew it was a lie, but it kept the tears at bay. When he let the note go over the railing, uncrumpled, just a random note floating toward the water, his eyes were dry.
The letter landed on the swirling water as it made its way toward the bay and out to the ocean. It didn’t sink. He watched it until it was out of sight.
The anger came then. With a burst of rage, he hurled his cane into the air. It landed with a splash, the carbon fiber crutch floating away in the wake of the note.
He headed home. He never went back to the clinic. He never saw her again.