The Other Shore: Two Stories of Love and Death

by Paul Hina

didn't know each other until I started my Ph.D. work with him about three years ago," she says, and then her tone changes. "I'm really going to miss him."

  "I know," he says, looking off into nothing in particular.

  Laura leans her head on his shoulder. He turns and kisses her tenderly on the forehead.

  "It's always been such a comfort to know that he was available whenever I had a question about teaching, or if I was having a difficult time working my way through the university's bureaucracy. Now, what'll I do?"

  "I may not offer the same answers he would—lord knows, I don't have his experience—but I'll be here to listen."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise," he says.

  She looks up at him, puts her arms around his shoulders and kisses him softly on the mouth.

  "I'm glad you're here," she says. "Did I already say that?"

  "It doesn't matter. Say it as often as you like. I like hearing it."

  "I don't want you to think that I asked you here tonight for the wrong reasons," she says, standing up and moving a few steps away from him.

  "I know why I'm here."

  "Yeah?"

  "I needed a place to stay, and you wanted some company."

  "Good. I didn't want you to— God, this is stupid. I'm being obtuse."

  "No, I understand," he says.

  "But I don't want you to think that I'm not interested or anything. It's not that."

  "Listen," he says, standing up, facing her. "You don't have to explain. Tonight is not the night for us to be together. Our minds are on other things. When we do sleep together, I don't want there to be any noise, any outside interference. Just you and me. Simon and Laura."

  "I like hearing you say my name."

  "Good, 'cause I like saying it."

  "Say it again," she says, smiling at hm.

  "Laura," he says slowly as he pulls her close.

  Having just showered, he brushes his teeth in Laura's bathroom. He wipes the condensation from the mirror with a towel, stares at himself for a moment. He looks and feels remarkably okay for a guy who lost his father only a few hours earlier. Somehow it seems like something about him should be different, or maybe he just wonders if he should feel different, lesser, as if the world should be dimmer somehow without his dad. But nothing has changed—not really. Maybe, it's because he's with Laura and feels the excitement of something new happening. Maybe the buzz he gets simply by being near her has been an elixir to his grief.

  Not that his dad's absence isn't looming. It is.

  Through the course of the evening, he and Laura have shared stories about him, and they've fought back many tears—sometimes successfully. And as they've pieced together these stories of a man they knew during different periods of his life, they are giving nourishment to huge portions of a life that the other didn't know existed. And knowing that there are still things about him left to learn gives him hope that there's still shadows of his life behind time's veil.

  He neatly places his toothbrush on the sink next to Laura's. He stares at the parallel brushes and thinks about how strange it is that he feels so at home in this place, like he's slipped into a bit of déjà vu. Everything here feels like it just fits.

  The door of the bathroom opens to Laura's bedroom. She's sitting on the bed in only an oversized t-shirt. She's sitting up against the headboard, and her body is stretched out over the length of the bed. Her long, tan legs are exposed all the way to the high side of her thighs. He tries not to stare, but the light from the bathroom casts a spell of golden light over her skin.

  "Could you shut the door just enough so there's still a little light coming in the room?" she asks.

  "Sure," he says, and shuts the door until the light is just a trickle across the bedroom. "Wish I'd gone to Maggie's after all. I could've used a fresh change of clothes."

  "I'm sure I have some pajama bottoms you could wear. Probably won't quite fit, but they'll do the trick."

  "Nah, I'll just sleep in my boxers if that won't bother you."

  "Whatever makes you comfortable," she says, and he could swear, even in the near-darkness of her bedroom, she was blushing.

  Simon moves from the bedroom to the couch in the living room. He notices that she hasn't set anything out for him. There are some standard throw pillows on the couch, but no sheets or blankets.

  "Do you have a sheet or something I could use?"

  "Yeah, sure," she says, getting up from the bed and moving to the closet by her dresser.

  The nightshirt she's wearing is so short that it leaves very little to the imagination, and as she stands on tiptoe to reach a high shelf in the closet, he finds it very difficult not to linger as the shirt's hem rises. And he does linger. His eyes move up and down her beautiful body, and his body stirs in response.

  She pulls a sheet down from the shelf and turns toward him, catching him staring.

  He wasn't trying to hide it.

  "What?" she asks.

  "Nothing."

  "No, what is it?"

  "Your nightshirt, it—"

  "Sorry, is it immodest?" she says, seeming to take a special delight in drawing out each syllable of 'immodest.'

  "No, well, I don't know. It's very beautiful. You're very beautiful."

  "Thank you," she says, and he can tell as she crosses from the darker side of the room into the lighter part of the living room area, she's blushing again. He probably is, too.

  She holds the sheet out to him. He grabs it, but she won't let go.

  "You going to let me have that?"

  "No," she says, pulling it back. "What are we doing? This is silly. Just come to bed with me."

  "You sure?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

  "Is that too weird? Too forward?"

  "No, I just wasn't expecting—"

  "Just for sleeping, of course."

  "Of course," he says, though his body is craving something more.

  She moves back toward her bedroom closet. He follows her, but moves toward the other side of the bed. As he slides out of his pants and sits on the bed, he watches her stand on tiptoe again to put the sheet away. This time, it seems like she's fully aware that he's looking. She reaches up a little bit higher and holds the pose just a little bit longer. She reaches high enough that the nightshirt crawls up so that he catches sight of her white cotton panties.

  "You get a good look?" she says, closing the closet door.

  "I sure did," he says, pulling the sheet over his body.

  She crawls in next to him, says, "This is strange, isn't it?"

  "It is strange—but nice."

  "Do you feel guilty?" she asks.

  "About what?"

  "I don't know. For being playful so soon after."

  "No, he would be happy to see us together right now."

  "You think?"

  "Well, maybe not exactly like this, that might be a little too voyeuristic. But, yes, he would be happy to know that we're getting along."

  Now, in her bed, the sheet pulled up to their chests, they both stare up at the ceiling. He turns to her and smiles a nervous smile. She smiles back.

  "It is odd that we got together today of all days," she says.

  "Yeah, it's definitely not conventional."

  "And we'll always know it."

  "Yeah, but I think it's fitting somehow. After all, he is the one that brought us together. He's the one that wanted this for us."

  "He did?"

  "Sure he did."

  "He told you that."

  "He and Susannah both pushed for it."

  "I didn't know that."

  "He never said anything to you about it?"

  "He always talked about how much he wanted me to meet you, but I guess I never quite put it together that he might be trying to fix us up."

  "I think he thought we'd make each other happy."

  "You think he knew we were heading in this direction?"

  "He knew I was taking the job, and I think that was enough. He kn
ew we would be together in one way or another," he says and reaches over to squeeze her hand.

  She takes his hand and turns away from him, pulling him toward her body. He presses into her.

  "Boy, you are excited," she says, feeling his arousal against the back of her body.

  "Sorry. It's that nightshirt."

  "Don't apologize. I like that I excite you."

  He pulls the sleeve of her shirt up to expose her shoulder, kisses the skin around it.

  "That feels nice," she says.

  But he stops, feeling how close they are to the precipice. It is important that they not sleep together tonight. It may seem arbitrary to wait, but it's not the right time. It'll have to be good enough to be close tonight.

  "Is there any way you could leave me the key to the classroom? I was thinking about getting up and going there tomorrow, and I don't want to disturb you if I get up too early."

  "Sure," she says, getting up out of bed and moving toward a chair by the door where her purse is sitting. She reaches into the purse and grabs a small bundle of keys. "Do you want the key to the room with the archives or his office key?"

  "Just the archives."

  "The doors to Felton are usually unlocked about six, seven at the latest. So, you won't be able to get in any earlier than that," she says, sitting the key on the dresser. "It's there if you need it."

  She quickly slides back into bed, and presses the back of her body against his body again.

  "Good night, Laura."

  "Good night, Simon."

  And the quiet falls like a curtain of grief over them. And they can't lift it. They can't hide from the fact that death has been with them all evening, and has no plans to leave for the rest of the night.

  Simon is paddling in the middle of the water. The whole world around him is water in every direction. There is light—off somewhere—from a source he cannot find, but it's not daylight. The light resembles the blue from moonlight as it