intending to write a comedy I checked my dates and got this instead

[nepheliad.livejournal.com]

He was a doctor. A physician. He wore the robes, wore the hat, walked with the staff, carried himself in such a way. It had finally happened – something he'd halfheartedly wanted at first, and then firmly wanted, and then became insistent upon.

And one of the most important people he'd had in his life, who'd kept him going, who had made such a difference to it – his very best friend, wasn't there to see it the way she should've been. Certainly, thirty wasn't young, for thirty was how old she would have been, but it was not old. Not old enough. If only he'd been able to do something. He would have, if she'd waited. But she'd waited so long already, she was far older than most people were when they had children, it wasn't right of him to expect her to wait.

If only she'd waited.

He sat with her anyway, told her the stories of walking the tables, talked to her about the last year. Told her how her son was doing, for that matter, because she may or may not have gotten the chance to see, may or may not have been paying attention, but in this spot, he knew she was. He knew she was listening. This was something his father had told him he'd know. He felt it. This was the right place to have put her, a place she'd notice.

"I am sorry I couldn't keep you with me always," Robert told the ornate glass sculpture of a horse that marked where the best friend he'd ever had was buried – on the property of the castle, a proper bridge to the afterlife, two things which made her more likely to note him and pay some attention. "I miss you."

He thought he heard I know whispered in his ear.

He was never sure.