A Taste of The Past

The last rays of a fading sun filtered through the windows, barely piercing the thick glass. The light touched her face, muted but still warm. Why had she insisted on those windows? They stifled the colors of the setting sun, transforming the raging, brilliant hues into smoky shadows of themselves. What a waste of money and beauty. Dust motes danced through the haze as her mind wandered. Noah had voiced that same thought back when she had them installed. Smart man.

Reaching for the small table next to her, she retrieved the bottle and glass she had placed there that morning. The bottle felt warm and heavy in her hand, comforting. Removing the cork, she let the thick Merlot flow into the crystal basin of her wineglass. She watched, mesmerized, as the wine mixed with the sunlight, the color changing from burgundy to crimson to ruby. She swirled the glass slowly, wafting a delicate aroma of sweet fruit and bitter chocolate. Light and dark. Just like this room, she thought idly. Just like me.

Moments later, she took her first sip, letting the liquid flow back against her throat like a soothing balm. Raspberry. Fruitiness tickled her tongue, but an all-consuming tartness quickly replaced it. The taste was overwhelmingly reminiscent of a memory from her youth.

She was 24 and the year was 1985. She had come home just in time for the summer berries. They grew thick and red, tempting her to pluck and eat them on the spot. She barely registered the feeling of grass under her bare feet, her soles weathered from the many times she’d gone shoeless over the past few years. She popped a slightly paler berry in her mouth, this one issuing a perceptible crunch.. Not fully ripe yet. She chewed slowly, and the crunching gave way to a faint buzzing. Interesting- she’d never known berries to buzz. The thought was fleeting, a brief segue to a horrible realization. Berries didn’t buzz. Bees did.

It was too late. She felt the deep, tearing pain. Against her ankle. The back of her thigh. She screamed and stumbled backwards, crushing the remaining berries in her hand as she slapped at her legs. Something wasn’t right, bee stings didn’t feel like this. The insects that attacked her leg were darker, shining with a metallic blueness in the bright June sun. Blue wasps. She must have disturbed a nest. Limping away as fast as she could, she felt an unfamiliar sensation of tightness, like her shorts were suddenly too small for her. She called out for her mother, who appeared distantly on the porch, shielding her eyes in concern. Her legs hurt too badly so she sat, the cool grass providing a brief reprieve from the burning sensation. Dust kicked up in the distance and the family car became visible scant moments later, roaring down the road towards her. Her mother leapt from the car, her eyes going wide at the sight of her daughter’s legs. Heaving with the difficulty, they maneuvered her to the car, a miracle since she could barely move the swollen appendages.

At the hospital, she laid on a sterile white reclining chair, but the crisp vinyl felt too hot against her skin. They had administered a salve to help the swelling but were concerned by the number of stings- she would have to wait to see one of the doctors. The man that walked in minutes later was not her doctor.. He couldn’t be. Her eyes narrowed. Noah Lozano. They had gone to college together, shared some of her science courses. He was a doctor now? She had never bothered to ask about his major, had never really spoken to him beyond what was necessary. His eyes lit with recognition, and she knew he remembered. Remembered her nearly blowing them to kingdom come in that damn chemistry course. Oops. Guess that was why he was the doctor and she was the one in the bee-induced, quasi-paralytic state. He smiled somewhat ironically and held up a pair of surgical scissors.

“Going to have to take those off,” he motioned to her shorts.

“No,” her brain screamed, this cannot be happening. She looked down at her legs, ballooned up against the line of her shorts like some ridiculous blow-up doll. It did look bad, she admitted, the hem of her shorts was cutting so harshly into her skin that it had turned white. She looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. “I guess this is karma,” she muttered, recalling how she had nearly sliced his fingers off in an anatomy dissection lab. She nodded her ascent that he should proceed.

He began by sliding the scissors against the seam, a slightly bemused expression on his face as he asked her how she had come to resemble this grotesque balloon animal.

“Raspberries,” she said by way of explanation, too focused on the scissors to elucidate further.

There was a terrible rending sound as her shorts practically exploded off of her, allowing her skin to expand in a grotesque display of plasticity. The pink flesh reminded her of the underripe berries she had avoided on the bush. His annoyingly handsome face was the last thing she saw before she fainted.

A ghost of a smile touched her face. She ran a hand across her bare thigh, her sensitive fingertips finding several small, puckered scars- mementos from that day. Tipping her glass, she let the smooth flavors rush across her tongue once more. Vanilla. Sweet and rich, she felt herself being enveloped by another memory.

Her hands itched. Her heart beat out an uneven, staccato rhythm in her chest. She had never felt so unsettled by one person. She placed her hand on the table and gripped the stem of her glass harshly, thoughts ricocheting about inside her head. Suddenly a strong hand appeared in her line of vision, wrapping around her own. She met his warm brown eyes across the table and her heart slowed, her thoughts settled. Warmth from his hand seeped into her skin like a calming balm.

“So,” he said laughingly, “why did you agree to come out with me tonight? I got the impression you weren’t my biggest fan in college. After all, you did almost kill me on multiple occasions.”

She laughed, a little heat rising to her cheeks. “I was hoping you would be too much of a gentleman bring that up.”

“Never,” his eyes glinted with a teasing light. Holding up his own glass, he toasted her. “To your misfortune with some bees.. It was very fortunate for me.”

They spoke of everything that night. The conversation bled from one topic to another, descending from light-hearted banter to matters of a deeper, more intimate nature.

He was an only child, raised by parents whose lofty expectations could rival those of her own mother and father. He had always planned to become a lawyer until he lost his best childhood friend, a tragic turn that had prompted his desire to help others. His eyes shone with a mesmerizing gravity as he spoke, and she felt in awe of his passion for what he did. It also made her feel somewhat hollow in comparison.

“I don’t know what I want out of life,” she admitted softly, sharing something she had never said aloud to another person. Speaking the words made it real. Made it that much scarier. But he wasn’t judging her, instead he was gazing at her with.. appreciation?

“That just means you can be anything.. or everything. You don’t always have to pick and choose.. I can’t wait to see what you’re capable of. With any luck, I’ll get to.”

As they walked along the boardwalk later that evening, she was hyperaware. Every breath, every step, suddenly felt so much more intentional. She drank deeply of her surroundings. In one hand, she held a cone of sweet vanilla bean ice cream. The other grasped his. The cold confection was sweet and cold against her lips, smooth and complex as it travelled across her tastebuds. Was this what the world felt like when you had someone wonderful to share it with? Richer, shaded with new colors and sensations? She felt a deep and piercing hope that it would always be like this.

Her hand was curled on the couch next to her, and she was mildly surprised to see that it was empty. She had felt his hand in hers, was so sure she would open her eyes and he would be there. The glass beside her was all but empty, and the sun had nearly disappeared from the sky. Taking a deep breath, she savored the last of the wine, knowing what had to come next. She tasted it. Dark chocolate. So bitter.

The hallways were pristine, shining with the subtle glow of fresh wax. Muted conversation seeped from behind closed doors. They all looked alike. In the beginning, she had gotten lost often, but she navigated the halls with brisk efficiency now. Sixth floor, right wing. Eight doors down, on the left. Balancing the tray on her hip, she cracked the door and slid inside.

He was sleeping, his eyes flickering rapidly beneath his lids. His breathing sounded strained, a harsh wind rattling from between his lips. She moved quietly, settling into the chair beside him. She tried to carefully place the tray on the bedside table, but the fork clattered to the floor and rang out a harsh metallic tune. She winced as his eyes flew open- he slept so poorly now, if at all.

Covering his hand with hers, she raised it to her lips. His veins were clearly visible in the harsh light, forming beautiful purple tributaries under the near-translucence of his skin. “I brought food,” she whispered against his hand.

“I’m not hungry,” he smiled at her. “But thank you, love.”

“You have to eat,” she said, reaching for his favorite- greek yogurt with some canned fruit. They didn’t sell the fresh stuff in the cafeteria. She slid the spoon into the thick substance and proceeded to make childish airplane noises at him. Silly, she knew, but it always made him laugh.

Tonight, all he managed was a small smile. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” she said resolutely, “if I had wanted to do that, I would have tried harder in college.” The joke had spanned their many years together, with him always teasing that she would finish the job one day. He raised his hands in a feeble gesture of mock surrender and reached for the yogurt.

She clocked it. Half the time, he ate without issue. The other half, well.. That was a side effect of the radiation, they said. Ten minutes after he finished the yogurt, she handed him a small square of dark chocolate. He made a face.

“Just in case,” she said, trying to sound optimistic. It was to help, they had told her. The flavor was strong, biting. Would wipe out any lingering taste from the dinner he ate. If he was sick, he wouldn’t develop an aversion to his favorite foods, only to the taste of that little dark square. And it had worked, maybe too well. For her, just the smell of it was repellant; his sickness could be reduced to this small piece of chocolate- brief and bitter.

Every day, after every meal, he ate the chocolate. She would eat a small square with him- a reminder that they shared every blessing and every burden. Happiness, love, pain, grief. They found comfort with each other, even in darkness. It was life, together. And it was beautiful.

She sat the empty glass on the table. The light had long since faded completely. Taking the bottle to the kitchen, she stared at the rack with ten others just like it. Until next time, my love. She smiled, returning to the other room to retrieve her glass. She really should replace those windows.