In the winter months, Luxy was a rather gloomy town; everything was closed, deserted, and looked like a ghost town. If it were the wild west there would be tumbleweed slowly blowing across the prairie. But when summer arrived, everything opened up like a flower in the spring sunshine, spreading its petals and welcoming the sun. The Fish and chip shops, ice cream parlors, and arcades all came out of hibernation. The beaches, overcrowded with white pasty brits lying on obnoxiously bright colored beach towels. Lathering their bratty children with bottles of sunscreen.
“Well, my little princess, here we are again,” said the old gray-haired man as he helped his wife out of the taxi.
They both stood on the pavement with their tiresome frail bodies, hunched over and worn out, in front of the dull, aged, and cheap-looking hotel.
John and Maggie had been visiting the Seashell Hotel on the 26th of July every year for the last forty-five years to celebrate their anniversary. This year was their sapphire year, and John being old-fashioned, always bestowed upon his wife a traditional gift of precious metal or stone. On their 40th, it was ruby earrings. This year was sapphire, and on the 50th anniversary, it would have been gold. Unfortunately, this was to be their last visit to the Seashell hotel. John was diagnosed with cancer, and he had been given six months to live.
The couple had enjoyed a wonderful life together, and Maggie had borne three boys. They had followed in their father’s footsteps and joined the police force. They were known as ‘Maggie’s boys.’ Everything wonderful in John’s life was due to his beloved Maggie. He would remind her every day of how much he adored her, with little kisses, cups of tea, and beautiful bright arrangements of flowers picked from his colorful garden. He would say, ‘the rhythm of my heart beats in unison with yours, Maggie.’ The thought of losing John was devastating to Maggie, like a train crash that you knew was coming. She didn’t think her heart could beat without his. In fact, she was convinced her heart skipped a beat when John walked into the room.
“Ciao, my friends, awelcome back,” said George, the Italian hotel owner. “I have you’re aroom all ready for you.” George wore white shorts and a loud bright pink shirt. On his wrist was a cheap gold watch with a matching chain around his fat neck. He was always the same happy and friendly host. The only thing that seemed to change from year to year was his belly that got a little plumper.
After dinner that night, John and Maggie sat by their bedroom window. They looked out over the black ocean as it glimmered and reflected the starlit sky, like a million tiny diamonds on a black rug. The moon was always low in the sky every July. They would reminisce over old photographs, they would begin with black and white ones, and then they would change to color, with the addition of little children as they progressed through the years.
Maggie pointed at one of the photographs.
“Do you remember this one, John?” as she smiled at him with her gray eyes and wrinkly face.
John chuckled. “Yes, dear, we had lunch together, and you kissed my collar, leaving your lipstick on it. You dared me to go back to work like that.”
“That was very brave of you going back to the station like that, with all the boys there.”
“My lovely Maggie, it wasn’t bravery. It was pride; I am proud to have you as my wife. You made me the man I am today, and I will always love you.”
Maggie felt her old heart skip as John smiled at her with that sparkle in his eye.
John and Maggie finished their champagne and snuggled in bed together. Their hearts beat slowly in unison until the last beat. They both died that night — the night of their 45th anniversary.
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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.
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Photo credit: Unsplash