Oh, Sam. by T.h.e..Fellow..Traveler

---

It was 1996 and the summer was excruciatingly hot.

I was one of the many freshly hired engineering interns at the company, and my head was almost constantly glued either to the yellow pages of my notepad, taking down notes from anyone ranked above me, or to my computer screen, staring at the pixels and endless rows of numbers until they gave me a headache.

Sam, on the other hand, was one of the people calling all the shots at the company: his words were the commands all of us rushed to execute as soon as possible, and his plans and visions were only a few grades below holy scripture.

Sure, there was someone above Sam’s head, too, but that director’s seat was filled in quickly and without much thinking: it was just short of a year after the war, and the world seemed to be a disheveled mess everywhere you looked; Sam somehow found way to make order out of all this mess, and that is probably a big reason as to why I liked him so much at the time.

I think it was a Wednesday when the meeting was held: the room was stuffy, hot, and bustling with chatter until Sam walked in, briefcase in hand, his black hair in a buzzcut and clean shaven cheeks as immaculate as always; in terms of clothing, his were always strictly no-fuss: black shoes and trousers, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and the top button undone. God, he looked good that day; I might not remember which day of the week it was, but I do remember that. Priorities, I suppose.

The meeting was centered about reestablishing as many points in the power grid and power supply to the country; the larger cities had some normalcy returned to them, but the smaller ones were still being intermittently supplied; the rural parts of the country almost not at all. Sam was chosen to helm the operation of reestablishing order, and he was laying out his plans of action today; I was taking notes of his plans left and right, frantically scribbling down his words anywhere I could on the page, so deep into it that trance that I failed to realize he’d stopped talking for a moment.

The first thing I noticed were the raised arms of my peers, who were all but standing on their tippy-toes for a better chance of being noticed, and then that steady, confident gaze on me; when I raised my head from my notepad and saw Sam looking directly at me from across the conference room, it took valiant effort not to faint.

"Alexander," he called my name with the hint of a chuckle. "Can you tell me what the last thing I just said was?"

"Of course, sir," I said, immediately looking it up in my notes; there it was, written in lines that resembled an EKG more than they did handwriting. "Oh. You’re looking for an intern to take with you. You’ll be heading out into the rural areas in the eastern part of the country."

Sam looked me up and down, then picked up a piece of paper that was laying in front of him. He was looking at it as he asked, "Are you interested in the position?"

Interested? I’d sell the promise of my firstborn to a witch if we came across one for this; that was the sentiment, but not the words a normal person would say out loud in front of their boss. "Very much, sir, yes. It’d be an excellent opportunity to study practical examples."

"Good," he said, still looking at the paper in his hand. "Start packing, in that case. We leave on Monday morning. By my estimates, it’ll most likely be a two-month long deployment."

When I tell you that I could’ve died there and been the happiest man in the world, I don’t mean it lightly: Sam and I, a world of problems to fix, just waiting for the two of us. It’d be early September by the time we returned, and the idea of him with a summer tan was…

"Thank you, sir," the words left my mouth in a trance, thoughts far from this conference room. "I appreciate the chance to learn and promise not to disappoint."

Sam gave me a curt nod, then returned to his next topic of conversation.

*

Come Monday morning, sometime just shy of 6.30, I was waiting in front of my apartment building. There was next to no traffic spare for the occasional night shift taxi driver making his way home and the first tram gearing up for the first ride of the day; not even the sun was properly up yet.

With some huff and puff in the form of rambling wheels and dark grey smoke, a small but sturdy green car made its way towards me. I recognized Sam almost instantly in the shotgun seat; to this day, I can’t recall a single detail of the driver’s face. They parked a meter away from me, both men exiting the car; Sam, to greet me, and the driver, to put my two measly packed duffel bags; one just for clothes, the other for a mix of hygiene, some food, clothes and engineering textbooks.

"Well, you travel light," Sam said with a bright smile.
I gave him an affirmative nod and nearly got lost somewhere between his tall forehead, Roman nose and prominent chin: the blame belonged to his brown eyes, their shade that of a morning coffee; I could drown in them ten times before waking up properly. He was leaning against the car and tipped his head back, taking in the brisk air with a peaceful smile, dressed in hiking boots, wide-legged jeans and a tucked in, plain white t-shirt whose short sleeves did very little stretching when he crossed his arms over his chest.

I felt the need to keep talking, I suppose, because I feared that I might otherwise actually start salivating. I babbled for the most part, spoke just for the sake of speaking, just to be heard by him. "That’s the beauty of summer clothes, I suppose," I said, "they don’t take up much space. And anyway, with this heat, if the radio’s to be trusted, I can just wash them before lunch and have them dry on the clothesline by the time I finish my sandwich."

Sam gave me a quick chuckle, then nodded towards me. "You heard the radio say that and decided to keep the hair?" the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Bold."

About my hair: it was the late nineties, and we were all more hairy than reasonable, alright? I’ll leave you with this mental image: black hair, thick, straight, and very much able to substitute for a helmet in shape and, potentially, in function. It made my look round and consequently, made my silhouette almost identical to that of a bowling pin.

I ran a hand through the black locks, fingers digging right into the middle part and picking up the bangs. "You think I should’ve cut it?"
Sam chuckled as he shook his head. "Too late for that now. Come on, hop in the car."

He opened the door and, before entering, said, "Worst case scenario, we’ll find you a village barber, some shears and pray for the best," then had the audacity to wink.

The look on my face transformed his chuckle into a full on laugh. As I was sitting down in the backseat, plopping my ass down between the backs of the driver and Sam himself, a laugh was forming on my face as well. "Just out of curiosity: since you’ve given me the worst, I’d like to know what the best case scenario is as well."

We were already on the move when Sam turned around with a soft smile on his face, then dug his fingers in my hair. "The best case scenario is that we hope the clippers I bought at the flea market on Saturday actually work," he said, voice light and eyes bright, "So that when we both have a few beers in our belly, you’ll trust me to give you a haircut."

I hadn’t even had time to register it happening until it did, until his hard fingers were rubbing against my scalp and until my hair was passing between them like currents in a river. "In that case, prepare to ditch the pretty boy style. I only know how to cut hair one way, and you’re looking at it."

It took my best efforts not to give in to the touch of his hand. "Well," I somewhat gathered my wits, "that sounds practical. This is unrelated, but I’ve been meaning to ask you about this conductor specification sheet…"

The rest of that conversation was about numbers and names that aren’t worth repetition right now; what you need to know is that Sam took a quick glance at the rearview mirror, noticed that the driver was looking straight ahead as we rode down the empty streets, then gave me a ghostly brush of his thumb against my cheek as he was pulling his hand back. At first I thought I’d imagined it, as it was early and my insomnia hadn’t returned home from the war just yet, but the look he gave me, long and hungry, was all the confirmation I needed, and then, as the cherry on top, he spoke.

"I think we have a fun summer ahead of us." His voice was soft and teasing, and from the backseat, I watched his cheek rise with the smile that blossomed on his face.

"I can’t wait."

If I knew then what I know now, I like to think that I would’ve made all the same choices. It wouldn’t change a thing in the end, but at least I’d get to live in those moments again.

*

The work, once we arrived, was plentiful to say the least.

Right on our first day, Sam gathered up the local teams, rallied them in the field and spoke to the superiors one by one; it was a pleasure to watch him as he worked, pouring over schematics with the sleeves of his linen shirts rolled up, absentmindedly biting the temple tips of his glasses when he frowned.

I was a sponge in those days: most of my time was spent soaking up the way in which he read diagrams, the details to which he paid attention to, the way of thinking he applied to the restoration work. I’ll spare you the technicalities, don’t worry: sparks might indeed fly when it comes to what we were doing, but I’m not here to write a work report.

Our accommodation was a house with a functional kitchen and bathroom, which was a jackpot compared to the others, as well as a living room and two bedrooms, one across the hallway from the other.

The prospect of sleeping only two meters away from him on that first night was a terror of its own kind; we chatted a little upon arrival, mostly me asking him questions about infrastructure, then set up some boundaries (not bringing home one-night stands, cleaning up, etc) and eventually, departed for our respective rooms after a cold shower.

We didn’t have electricity running throughout the house yet, so we hooked up one lamp to an accumulator and put batteries in some others, to be able to navigate around the place in the dark; the reason I’m mentioning this is to tell you that even with that dim, weak light, I’d seen just a glimpse of him when he exited the bathroom with that white towel around his hips; the gilded light made his skin appear bronze and the droplets of water crystalline as they ran down the back of his freshly buzzed head onto his shoulder blades. Watching his shoulders spread out in all their breadth made me understand, potentially for the first time in my life up to that point, the statement that God made man in his own image.

I drew in breath sharply enough to gain his attention, then did my quickest thinking to place my hands and the large towel they held over my crotch. Sam turned around, eyebrows slightly raised, looked at my face and then my hands; a satisfied smirk spread on his face as he bid me goodnight and walked towards his room with a reminder not to stay up too late. He turned and strolled toward his room, leaving me drowning in the scent of sandalwood and sin. I fled for the shower, the tiles biting into my skin, and cranked the handle until the water was a freezing deluge. But no amount of ice could quench the fire he’d started. I was a goner.

*

About two weeks into our electrical pilgrimage, we were hit by a heatwave.

Sam split our working day into two parts: the first started at five in the morning, when the linemen could still climb the pylons without roasting in the scorching sun, and lasted until noon; the second picked up sometime after four in the afternoon and ran until the daylight disappeared. The four hours between were either used for sleep or for rest, because anything else was unimaginable.

It was during one of those between hours that he brought it up.
We’d both just showered, now resting in the shade and cool of the living room after working all morning. My hair was nearly air-dried when he took a long look at it and cleared his throat.

"You’ll need to cut your hair sooner or later," he said, moving his thin-rimmed glasses up on his nose and looking up from his book. "I mean it. The weather’s not gonna get any milder anytime soon."

It wasn’t fear that caused my throat to start closing up, nor was it panic; I learned a lot later that the brain has a hard time differentiating between excitement and anxiety, and this was definitely a case of the former. The prospect of his hands on me, the touch of his knuckles against my nape when he fastened the cape around it, the feel of his fingers in my hair, pulling it and cutting it… Yes, please; yes, to all of it. As it was, my stomach dropped; I barely mustered a few words.

"It’s a nuisance already, to be honest. Especially in the front."

Sam closed his book and sat up. "I’ll give you a haircut right now if you want."

My heart drummed against my ribs, its pounding pulsating throughout my entire body.
"Yes." I swallowed hoarsely, then cleared my throat. "If you’re not too tired, let’s do it. I mean, it shouldn’t take long, right?"

He smiled as he rose, closed the short distance between us and stopped dead in front of me. He took his glasses off and tucked them around the neckline of his shirt before reaching for my hair again; I wasn’t surprised this time: I was dreaming about it, welcoming the mere thought of it.
"No, it won’t take long," he promised. "I’ll get you in order in no time."

As his fingers dug into the forelock, my lips parted and my heart raced. His touch was gentle, soothing; he ran his hand over the top of my head, picking up the long strands of hair between his fingers and leaving them behind as he made his way towards the crown. By the time he’d made his way to my temples, fingers gliding down to the bottom of the sideburns, drops of sweat prickled the back of my shirt. He ran his hand over my cheek, like he did in the car, and held my gaze for a moment longer than he did then; there was no driver now, and the world was contained to these four walls: were something to happen, they wouldn’t tell.

I watched his throat bob as he swallowed, his nostrils flare as he took in air; if I’d put my finger against his wrist, I’d read triple digits, just as he would if he counted my heartbeat. He was the first to look away after he’d dropped his hand, clearing his throat as he looked towards the kitchen.

"Grab a chair," he said, still not meeting my eyes. "I’ll go get the clippers hooked up to the accumulator." He made his way towards his bedroom, then lingered at the threshold; turning around to face me with a small grin, he said, "Get the broom, too. You’ll have a lot of cleaning up to do when we’re done."

My knees almost gave in when I tried to stand up. "Yes, sir."

The next three steps feel like a blur when I look back to it; blame it on the adrenaline rush. I remember picking up the chair and nearly dropping it right away because of how sweaty my palms were; I remember Sam coming back into the room, the box with the clippers in one hand, the portable accumulator. I remember that my heart felt like it might burst as I sat onto the chair.

I slipped out of the trance in the moment when he was tossing a white, slippery tablecloth over me, then picking up the two adjoining ends of it. My heart pounded against my ribs so hard that I am surprised I didn’t sound like a xylophone. Sam finished wrapping the tablecloth around my neck and fastened it with a red clothespin.

He took a few steps back, standing in front of me with his hands hanging next to his hips; he was cracking his fingers, brushing his thumbs over his curled pointer fingers as he gave me a thorough look. "I should…" he began, then trailed off. He cleared his throat before he finished. "I should comb it through first, I think, like a real barber." His small, nervous chuckle was the most adorable thing in the world as he picked up a comb and stepped next to me.

The second he gently dug his hand into the hair at the back of my head was the moment when I’d felt something akin to currents flowing through my thighs. He cupped the back of my head with his palm, using it to steady it as he took the comb to the front of my hair; its teeth were scraping against my scalp without much resistance, the volume of my hair obedient under his touch, all of it and all of me yielding to him fully.

Sam was combing the bangs that grew to functionally be curtains at the sides of my face when he said, "You shouldn’t let it grow this long again. There’s a face that’s too good looking to be hidden underneath all this."

He released his grip on the back of my head, then moved his arm to its right side and placed it there, digging his fingers in and following the shape of my head as he started combing through the back of my hair with his other hand. My lips were slightly quivering as I thanked him for the advice.

I thought that the combing would be the hardest part to sit through without making a fool of myself; to say that I was wrong would be putting it lightly, for what came next was truly a test of my composure.
He’d dropped the comb onto the table once he was done with it, then picked up the clippers with one hand and flipped through the various attachments with the other; he’d later told me that he used a #3 guard, because it was neither too short nor too long, just right for his liking.

The haircut began with a whirr of clippers coming to life.
Sam put his hand over my crown, pinning his thumb on one side of my head and pointer finger on the other, then angled my head to the left and pressed the clippers against my right sideburn. The chatter of the clippers was even louder now and the hungry, relentless vibrations of the metal teeth beneath the attachment pulsated against my skin. He ran the clippers from the beginning of my sideburn all the way up to my temple; it was quick work, all throughout which I was focused on keeping the bulge in my pants from being seen.

A sheet of silky, long black hair fell onto our impromptu cape. I felt a disembodied emotion upon seeing it, as I did with the second and the third; the fourth one already fell behind my back as Sam was making his way to the back of my head. His touch was electrifying, and his proximity was a threat to my sanity. He tipped my head down, pressing my chin to my chest, as he began driving his clippers from the nape to the crown. All I could keep thinking was that I didn’t worry about how the haircut looked in the end; for all I cared, he could shave me bald as a cueball and it wouldn’t bother me in the slightest, so long as I get to feel his hands on my skin: there wasn’t a price too high for the euphoria that provided me with. A handful of my hair fell into my lap as he finished clearing away the back; I was looking at it wide-eyed as he tilted my head to the right and began cutting the hair on that side as well.

Sam’s movements felt practiced by now; he moved like a professional, steadily and with confidence. This time, he didn’t drive the clippers all the way to the top of my temple: he’d come near it, then pull the clippers out before they could cut. I didn’t question his work, even when I was sure that he was leaving something that looked like a cliff made of hair at the side of my head.

He’d delivered an answer to my unasked question in the next moment: once he was done cutting the hair everywhere but at the temple, he repositioned the clippers in his hand so that he held them horizontally now. Sam embraced my head firmly with his other hand, cradling the back of my head with his thumb and digging his fingers into the still-long top, then pressed the clippers against my skin as he drove the clippers into the hair at my temple. A cascade of hair fell down my shoulder and into my lap, the gentle thuds the only sound present in the room aside from the clippers. I wasn’t sure that he was breathing; hell, I wasn’t sure that I myself was.

Once he was done with the sides and back, Sam repositioned himself again, this time planting himself behind the chair. My breath caught as his hand touched my forehead and he, with his voice gentle, whispered, "Lean back for me."

He tipped my head back and for a brief moment, our eyes crossed paths. I could see the hint of hunger in his, more intense now than it was on that first day in the car, more intense than it was today; if eyes truly were the mirrors of the soul, I wasn’t scared by what his carried: I wanted to be the remedy to it. My groin surged once more, and it felt harder to hold back this time. I closed my eyes as he brought the clippers closer. The hungry teeth dove into the middle of my hairline, aiming straight for the spot where my bangs parted. The resistance was smaller here, the sound of the clippers less hungry; when that first pass was done, I could feel the air from his breath against my scalp for the first time.

After the first pass came the second, then the third; soon enough, he’d cleared away all of the length at the top. Sam turned the clippers off. He ran his hand over my buzzed head, the scraping sound beautiful, and the sensation across my scalp even more so. I was in heaven for every second of it.

"Alex," he said, still rubbing his hand over my head, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I answered instantly. I didn’t care that it was too quick, didn’t care that a reasonable man would think before answering; at the moment, I was anything but reasonable. I was his, entirely.

Sam didn’t answer with words: instead, he took the attachment off of the clippers and flicked them on again. He stood behind me again, pressing my head against his torso with one hand as the other drove the bare clippers up the side of my head.

Hair fell onto my shoulders and in my lap again, this time drastically shorter and in small, bristly bunches as he moved the clippers confidently, driving them from the bottom of my sideburn all the way up to my temple and pulling away before he got to the top of it. The next pass felt like the most natural thing in the world; the one after that, even more so; I never wanted for this to be over, because I enjoyed every second of it: the sound of the clippers and the hot kiss of their metal to my bare skin, the buzzing against my scalp, and most of all, Sam being as close as he was.

He finished the side of my head quickly; when time came for the back to be cut, I bent my head down without a word from him, receiving a soft chuckle in response; my heart skipped a beat at the sound of it. Sam’s work was quicker now; he drove the clippers up efficiently, always making sure not to nick the length at the top with them now that the attachment was gone. Soon enough, he went on to cut the hair on the right side of my head as well, and then it was done.

When he turned the clippers off for the last time, neither of us spoke for a moment. He broke the silence when he unclapped the clothespin and released the tablecloth from around me, letting the hair fall onto the wooden floor.

"I hope you’ll like it," he said at last. "I think it suits you perfectly. You should go and see for yourself in the bathroom."

"I, uh, trust your judgment," I said shakily. At that moment, I’d trust him if he told me that the sky was evergreen. "But I’ll go and see. Wanna come with me, to see my reaction?"

He gave me a quick laugh at the suggestion. "I very much do, thank you."

We walked over to the bathroom in silence. My whole body was still electric with the memory of his touch, of his hand sliding over the top of my head and rubbing it. If I died right now, I’d die a man happy.

When I entered the bathroom, I was met by a stranger staring back at me from the mirror. To say that I didn’t recognize myself would be putting it lightly: all the soft, round edges of my head were gone; with the sides shaved and the top cut as brutally short as it was, I felt sharper and even looked it, with my cheekbones and the lines of my chin gaining more prominence now. My eyes looked clearer, too; all of me did.

I felt like I was seeing myself not for who I have been up to this point, but for who I could be as well. Sam stood behind me, a small smirk on his lips. He’d put his reading glasses back on again, now looking at me through the thin-rimmed glasses with a new spark in his eyes.

"So, what’s the verdict?" he asked. "Was trusting me a mistake?"

I chuckled. "Not in the slightest. This is perfect, Sam."

He raised his eyebrows as his cheeks began taking on a pinkish hue. Sam dropped his gaze as he cleared his throat, pinning his glasses up on the bridge of his nose when he looked up. I looked at his face in the gilded afternoon light, studied it well and waged my chances against insanity; the result of my calculations came in quickly.

"I’m glad you like it," he said, then ran the back of his fingers against my shaved sideburn; his skin slid smoothly against mine, no resistance. "If it were up to me, I’d have you like this all year long."

To hell with it. My eyes met his in the mirror. "Have me, then."

His lips parted as I turned around, his hand dropping to my nape. We were looking at each other directly as I said, "Have me all year long."

What came next is something that would take many pages to describe.

I’m not entirely sure that you’d enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed what happened for the duration of it, so I’ll just tell you this: he indeed had me. That first time happened in his bedroom because it was the closest, and to this day I’m not sure how we even made it there when the bathroom floor was right in front of us.

*

The next weeks passed in bliss.

Outside of the house, he was my superior and I his obedient intern. At home, we were inseparable; if his hands weren’t at my hips or caressing my scalp, they were in my hands. His kisses were all but a necklace from how often they were at my neck. I ate and drank in the sound of his laugh, the shine of his eyes, his endless wisdom and the stories from his life up until now.

He talked about his childhood one night when we decided to dine by candlelight for a small getaway from the rough day we had. If you can call canned beans and old bread romantic, call it; we sure did. We felt as if we were dining in the heart of Paris itself. I’d asked him what on Earth made him, an American, decide to cross the ocean and come here, of all places. All the countries that once made up Yugoslavia were in relatively equal amounts of a mess, and all of them just as unstable: to my knowledge, no one came here willingly, and even those of us who were here, were leaving for better, safer countries left and right.

We were sitting on the floor, his arm around my back and my head in the crook of his neck.

"My dad died in Vietnam," he said after pressing a kiss to my temple. "He was one of the marines who arrived in Da Nang in ‘65, the first of our troops to enter the war. After three years, we got the visit no one wanted to get. I was five years old the last time I saw him, and eight years old when I held my mom after the officers left her crying with the news they delivered."

I wrapped my hand around his; he pressed his fingers around mine. "I knew then that I wanted to honor him in every way I could. I didn’t see myself in the military, which you’ll find shocking, given my choice in haircuts for us both," he chuckled, and I did too, despite the tears in my eyes, "but engineering felt like it could give me what I wanted to give back to the world in his name."

"Order and stability?"

"And peace," he added. "Not in a human sense, not the kind that stops wars; peace, in the sense that it could bring back electricity. That felt simple enough. When you have electricity, you can have a warm meal on your table and a lightbulb over your head while you eat it, if nothing else. That’s a good start, right?"

Oh, Sam. I turned to him and pressed a kiss against his lips. "That’s as human as it gets."

He smiled softly. "Well, if you say so. It would be bragging if I said it myself, so, thank you."

We shared a laugh at that.

We shared many things during this time: kisses and hugs; embraces in the morning and in the night; small, stolen glances outside of the house we called ours for the summer; brushing our hands together by ‘’accident’’ when looking over single-line diagrams. We even shared clothes, and he teased me about how baggy his looked on me, while I teased him that mine barely fit his beefy self.

It was in one of those moments of half-delirium and half-exhaustion after a hard day’s work that he’d clasped his golden necklace around my neck, and in exchange, I put my late mother’s bracelet around his wrist, the thin bands of woven silver coming to life against his tan skin. We even both happened to be wearing white, so we joked that we were as good as married now; we danced for the occasion to the sound of children’s laughter outside our window, to the sound of the wind threading through the canopies and the bonfires crackling in the distance. We were on top of the world at that moment, nevermind our aching backs and the callouses on our fingers.

In the nights, after the work was done for the day, we’d unwind with the locals every now and then. Sometimes, we’d help the crew who were putting up roofs by helping prep the wooden beams and unload the tiles; on less strenuous nights, Sam played soccer against the village boys, letting them win every time, and I watched with my dumbest grin, more in love than I ever was.

We spoke about our future every now and then. After this project was done, he’d probably go back to the States; he asked me to come with him.

"Mom will love you." he said with a bright smile. "She knows about me. I think you two would get along perfectly, so, please, if not for me, then for her: come with me."

"Maybe for only a visit at first," I’d told him one night; he accepted this with a nod. "We don’t want your mother thinking that I’m taking your hand for a green card."

Sam rolled his eyes, then chuckled. "Sure, because that’s the only thing you find attractive about me."

My hand was already making its way to the buckle of his belt as we were making our way to my bedroom, talking between kisses. "Exactly," I’d told him after kissing the side of his neck, "I don’t know what else I could possibly be in love with."

His answering laugh carried on as we made it to the bedroom.


*



Sam died two days before we were meant to return to the capital.

It happened on one of those nights when he was playing soccer with the boys from the village. The ball went sideways, into some bush, and he said that he’d get it. It was like he forgot that there was a war. It’s like he forgot that there were mines all over the place.

The company sent people out to pack his remains the next morning. I didn’t watch. Couldn’t.
The war had taught me pain in more ways than one, but losing Sam was another kind of ache altogether. I packed up our clothes before the car took us home, him in a coffin and me not far from one myself. I still remember how hollow the wooden crate felt when I laid my head against it.

It was a few days later when they shipped his remains and belongings back to his single mother, to the woman who had lost her husband to one war and her son to the aftermath of another. I have never met her to this day, half from shame and half from fear of seeing a single trace of him in her face.

The years passed. I stayed with the same company to this day; went back to school for my master’s, then my first and my second PhD, then took a sabbatical from all things academia. Before you ask: no, I didn’t marry. There were lovers, there were proposals, but I would never marry anyone but him. I swore it to him that day on our ride back to the capital with my forehead against his casket like a prayer on a pew. Thirty years later, I am still wearing his necklace and the haircut he gave me that summer.

To tell you the truth, reader, I don’t know why I’m writing this, other than the fact that it’s the anniversary of his death today, and that I felt that I should say something. So instead of getting philosophical, thanks to the bottle of scotch at my feet, I’ll tell you this: the only reason why I won’t join him before my time is that I made another oath to him that day: that I would give back to the world in his name from that day to my last. That was my plan for the foreseeable future.

My plan for today, though, was to do what I was doing from the beginning of this story: sitting next to his grave, kissing his headstone and wishing that he and I could spend just one more day together. For today, that’ll be enough.

---