Don't Fear the Reaper

Don't Fear the Reaper: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

                Old John leant back on his deck chair, out in the garden with his usual morning newspaper that he always spent reading through the afternoon. The sun was up, complimenting his breakfast of coffee and toast.

Long tufts of grass tickled his feet. He hadn’t trimmed this part of the lawn since god knew when – well, no, of course he did. It had been since about a year ago, when his wife passed away.

The thought of her gone always stung unpleasantly, even after all this time. To numb out the feeling like he generally did, he lit a cigarette.

A summer breeze tossed his hat to the side of his head, and ate up the smoke. As more smoke drifted through the air, he suddenly seemed to think more of her than he should be.       Memories. All that came to him were happy memories, topping them all was her image, his wife’s: the days they spent together when they were so young, with not a single worry in the world. The nights spent at the beach, her auburn hair flaming behind her as she ran, only to be chased by him.

It wasn’t only his wife – but his son and daughter, his grandkids, his old school friends and Sunday’s bridge and bingo games.

“Margaret,” he whispered, “If only you were here.”

Another cloud of smoke sailed before him as he exhaled.

“If only I was there with you.”

                A tugging pressure had begun to settle on his chest and lungs. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes for relaxing.

Seconds came by too soon as, in that very state, his hand dropped over the armrest of the chair, limp. The cigarette rolled on the lawn.

A dark leather shoe stamped it out. He had no intention of creating an unnecessary fire. Slowly, his sharp fingers touched the man’s forehead, igniting a light that was just as blinding in the morning.

Just as silently as always, he pocketed the pearl that the light had transformed into, leaving Old John forever resting with his memories.

**

                “Amanda, I want to take over the register again.”

Amanda eyed me by the length of her nose, balancing three dirty plates on each of her arms.

“Carson’s come in today. You go back to serving,” she said, elbowing open the swinging doors of the kitchen, when another waitress simultaneously came out with a tray of food.

“Can’t he be a waiter for one day?” I requested.

“You have to be kidding. The boy’s never had training and is going to make a fool of himself,” Amanda retorted.

“There’s always room for learning,” I said importantly, following her in.

Dumping the plates into the dishwasher, she turned to me. “Right. What is this really about?”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “It’s not what you think. There was a customer yesterday and he left something. I don’t think he’ll like the idea of handing it over to someone else to give it to him.”

                “Oh, why?”

“It…well, I think it had sentimental value.”

Amanda tightened her apron. “The good looking one with the blue eyes?” A small smile played at the corner of her mouth.

I sighed. “Look, the only reason I’m asking you is because I can’t convince Carson. He listens to you, you know.”