Love Stories. At the End of a Love Affair by Dewey Edward Chester… I traced my movements, probing for spots where betrayal had begun.
The rain changed to mist when I adjusted my trench coat. I walked through side streets. I didn’t care. I walked along to think. I traced my movements, probing for spots where betrayal had begun. It was there somewhere, it had to be.
Stubbornly, I searched my mind, and as I went over familiar ground, I found concentration difficult. A train of thought would end up against a wall. I was not attacking the problem at all. I had come to a dangerous dead end.
I walked faster and forced myself toward deliberate thought. But trains kept running into walls, so gradually despair gave way to anger. I was vain. I had seen deception in Washington. It stirred me toward fury. The murder was meant for me; fury changed to rage.
Since college I fought opposition…and won! But now…this rage drove me on and on and on—-until faster and faster, mistakenly I walked right past my home.
Inside, a fire was burning in the hearth. A log cracked then fell to the floor. I walked over and stood near the flames. The log burned sluggishly, flared somber red gleams around the room.
Samantha walked in, holding a bottle of champagne. Her thick hair caught firelight and held it in a nimbus around her head.
She sat at the piano, her gown reflected no light. She wore no jewelry or makeup.
“You’ll play something?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, apparently drunk, “but later….I want to talk awhile.”
She held her shoulders up, towards her neck, then said: “I’m not thinking very clearly. No matter what I try to think about there’s a fog between me and it….so I barely catch a glimpse of it before I lose it and have to hunt through the fog and find it again. Can you understand how horrible that can be?”
I came to the point: “In your condition it sounds normal as hell. It’s a wonder you haven’t gone mad.”
“Perhaps I have,” she slurred. “I’m drunk because of stupid politics; they meant to murder you!”
“That’s how they play, Sam. I told you that, years ago.”
“My Love,” she sighed deeply, “you can’t win them all!” She poured another glass of wine and took a deep gulp. She put her hands on the edge of the piano, leaned forward and began to play and sing:
“Everything must change
Nothing stays the same
Everyone will change
No one stays the same.
“The young become the old
Mysteries do unfold…..
For that’s the way of time….
Nothing and no one goes
She leaned back when her song ended, looked at me straight into my eyes, and said: “I’m going back to New York; I’m leaving you.”
I nodded but didn’t speak. I left the fireplace and sat near her on the sofa.
I lifted my pipe toward my mouth, lowered it and—– as if the question had just come to mind, asked: “Why?”
She poured a glass of Champaign; took another gulp.
I rose, crossed back to the fireplace and dropped pipe ashes into the fire. “You’ve been my greatest challenge,” I spoke softly. There was nothing in my voice, my face, my manner that suggested interest in what I had just said to her.
She replied, “And you have been mine, since college.” She moved toward me, put her arms around my neck and kissed me, hard in the mouth.
The fire’s shadows danced across our faces —- “I shall always love you,” she said, “and that will never change!”