For No One

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The sun spilled over the sheets in gradually widening bands. Pale yellow light softened the mild darkness. A ceiling fan rotated idly above the bed.
Miriam sighed.
How long had she been awake?
Soft breathing serenaded her hesitant vigil. The night just past, exhausted, he'd crawled into bed beside her, had cradled her to him before slipping into oblivion. Only in the long arm of dreams did he appear at peace. Light bathed his hair, blond became gold, swept tenuously across the white pillow. A tiny smile rested on his sleep-pale lips. If he could remain this way forever, she wouldn't complain.
The Day had finally come.
He'd never promised to stay, and if he had she wouldn't have believed him. She'd always known one day the phone would ring and he'd have to leave. What made it harder was that she'd gone with him anyway. To spare herself the pain then, she'd have to endure it now. How many short hours left? Three? Two? Perhaps less.
The broad shoulders that had brought her so much comfort shifted. Her heart stopped.
'Please no, don't wake up. Morpheus, let him sleep!'
Eyes blinked once, twice, but did not open.
She sighed in relief. A few minutes more to paint his image on her memory.
Under delicate lids, his eyes danced to the music of his mind. Dipped in chocolate, sprinkled with cinnamon; Miriam knew their colour as intimately as the body curled around her. It had lasted longer than even she could've hoped, this relaxed existence away from the world's hungry gaze. From a small apartment in a quiet part of town, they'd done their best to live as ordinary a life as possible. His handsome face, plastered over the world's consciousness before he'd even turned twelve, had cancelled any hope of living in normal anonymity. Being a Name (as he called it) meant he couldn't even walk down the street for the mundane staples of life – bread and milk – without the risk of being mobbed by idolising fans. At least here on the north bank people asked politely for autographs. Their happiest times, in Miriam's opinion, were at the upper class restaurants, where the customers were such snobs they tried to pretend they didn't recognise him. Those dinners were fun. There, they could pretend to be nobodies, people whose contributions to the world added up to working nine to five at their chosen jobs and the prospect of adding another face or two to the earth.
There'd be no more of those nights for a long while.
Gentle fingers brushed a lock of hair back from his face. A resigned murmur slipped from her throat as she lay back down beside him, his arms sliding around her. The warmth she felt almost broke her heart. How could she bear to sleep alone after this?
Her eyes closed gradually, lulled by the steady rhythm of his deep breathing.

Irises dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with cinnamon contracted against the intrusion of light in the realm of familiar darkness. So much for peace and sleep. Every morning his fog-shrouded thoughts protested the demanding machinations of consciousness. All he wanted was to stay in the soft sunshine of dreams. Content in Miriam's arms.
Miriam. . . .
Forcing weary eyes open, an involuntary smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Miriam. His Miriam, the care-free face and fragile body that he adored so much. Curled beside him she slept, resting a light head affectionately on him. In so many ways she still looked like a child, from her barely rounded hips to the dusting of freckles on her dainty little nose. Looking at her, one could be forgiven for thinking she was still a high-school kid, not a uni student three months away from graduating with a teaching degree. Not that he'd be there to see it.
Because today was the Day.
A kiss, the barest of touches, was brushed against her temple. Carefully, he slid from between the sheets – watched as she burrowed into the warmth he'd left behind – and pulled a tattered shirt over his head. He only had a few hours left and there were still bags that needed packing. It'd been a good idea to store his luggage in the spare room; at least he wouldn't disturb Miriam. The loose band on his wrist was used to quickly tie back his long hair. Everyone always pestered him about it, why was it so messy? Why was it dirty? (It wasn't). Why weren't the ends nicely trimmed? Why hadn't he cut it shorter like his brothers? Why did he insist on keeping it like that? The long look was just so . . . old.
Miriam had never complained. He took his cue from her.

Question. How was he going to manage getting these heavy suitcases down to the car without Miri's help? Answer. That was quite simple really. He wasn't. Familiar floorboards screeched under the carpet as he made his way back to the bedroom. She'd slept on, despite the noise. No wonder. Her whole family swore she'd sleep through a blitzkrieg. Only heaven and his subconscious knew why he still worried about waking her up with too much noise. Sweet Miriam, who could sleep like a log and still look like a napping fairy.
The mattress sank as he sat down. A tiny smile crept onto her lips, a hand unconsciously reaching for him. She knew this particular weight very well.
"Miri?" if lugging overpacked suitcases into the hall hadn't troubled her, how was a half-whisper going to wake her up now? Not surprisingly, she didn't stir.
"Miriam?" a little shake of the shoulders.
"Mmm. . . ." a little moan of objection.
"Come on Miri, wake up," he felt like he was trying to drag one of his stubborn little sisters back from the primordial abyss.
"Wha. . . ?" and gradually her open eyes came into focus. The smile didn't shift. "Morning Zac,"
"Morning Miri," would the six-months-or-more change this well-oiled ritual? She'd snaked her arms around his neck to receive her avidly-given dawn kiss, even as they spoke. In the contented pause, they simply exchanged smiles. It could have been any other Sunday. Pretend and maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
"I suppose you want me to get breakfast?"
"Would you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Once again, my uselessness in the kitchen precedes me,"
She giggled.
"Oh I don't know, you're pretty good with dessert,"
"With dessert, as dessert," an indifferent shrug earned him a playful slap on the shoulder and a quick peck on the nose.

The sounds of pots clashing against pans could have been comical. Would have been too if Miriam was as unorganised as someone like his brother, Taylor, who refused to do more than a cursory tidy up (on the excuse that if he did it properly, he'd never find anything again). The Miss Organisation fragment of Miri's personality was her best and worst trait. Zac'd never heard banging pots in this particular kitchen before; it was rather unnerving.
"You okay Miri?"
"Have you seen the cheese knife anywhere?" cheese knife?!
"Try the dishwasher,"
Rummage . . . clang . . . scuffle . . . rattle. . . .
"Thanks!" Friday night a few of their friends had called around for dinner. It happened fairly often, why else did they keep a constant supply of dips, crackers and European cheeses? The tuna casserole she'd made that night had been delicious. Strange that she'd forgotten.
But what did she want with the cheese knife?
Another difference between them that just made things interesting. Cutting cheese with an ordinary bread knife amounted almost to sacrilege in her eyes. He thought cheese knives were essentially useless. This morning Miriam was showing off one of her birthday presents, a satin Japanese-print kimono, whilst he happily walked around in boxers and a crumpled old T-shirt. Neither really minded; he could look sophisticated if the occasion called for it, and she knew how to dress down.
He grinned. She certainly did.
Cramming one last pair of jeans in amongst the rest, Zac tried the zipper. It wouldn't budge.
'Wonderful!'
Once again, he resigned himself to the awkward task of closing a suitcase whilst sitting on it.

Wafting on the breeze from the open windows was the faint, distinctive smell of coffee. Where would the morning be without it?
"Breakfast,"
As far as he was concerned, Miriam had earned the right to call herself a chef long ago. What she could whip up in fifteen minutes fell little short of amazing. And she said breakfast wasn't a big affair!
"Once again Miri the Magician has conjured up a feast,"
"And once again, I'm sure you'll appreciate it by eating everything in sight?"
"That's why you love me so much," she couldn't resist the goofy smile, she had to laugh.
"Don't ask me where you put it all. Sit down,"
Another little tradition of theirs, the TV was never turned on before noon; when they ate it was either in friendly silence, or with the radio going. Today it was tuned to the local blues station. Miri wasn't a big eater, she stuck to her bowl of cut strawberries in milk and watched him. Obviously, she wasn't in much of a talking mood this morning, and Zac wasn't all that surprised. He was used to being away from everyone he knew for months on end, she wasn't. The last few weeks she'd been wearing a brave face, but six-months-or-more was an awful long time.
"What time?"
"Sorry?"
"What time does your plane leave?" her voice was level, but her hand was trembling just slightly.
"Quarter to ten,"
"Two hours," there were still seven slices of strawberry left in the bowl, but she pushed it away all the same and stood up.
"Not hungry?" her smile was meant to be reassuring, but it didn't ease the concern in his eyes.
"I . . . no, I'm . . . I'll be okay," they both knew what was preying on her thoughts, but neither said anything. Maybe if it went unacknowledged, it would go away. No such luck. The tickets and passport sitting on the bench weren't exactly going to grow legs and run down the street.
"Sure?" catching her hand, he gently pulled her back, onto his lap. Any other Sunday, she'd laugh and squirm and try to get back on her feet. But this wasn't any other Sunday. The expression on her face was not one of laughter, and her light head rested heavily against the hollow of his shoulder. She seemed so small. Gently, her fingers brushed against his jaw, memorising the feel of it for the lean months ahead.
"Promise you'll call?" her sweet voice, sometimes animated, sometimes sensual, held an element of desperation. Clutching for straws.
"As often as I can," which wouldn't be easy. How much of his life had been spent touring? What with the standard one show every three days, he'd barely have time to eat and sleep, let alone call anyone. Ike and Tay had thought he was crazy, to get so involved so close to recording and the inevitable touring; he could almost see them shaking their heads in pity. The months had gone surprisingly quickly.
"I'm gonna miss you like anything,"
"Hey, I'm not gone yet," his words were as gentle as his arms, folding her into a comforting hug.
"But you will be,"
"Maybe I can give you something to remember?" she nodded against his throat. Mindful of her light weight, he carried her towards the bedroom. Force of habit made him close the door.

The domestic terminal passenger-lounge was relatively empty. Most people preferred to loiter near the gate, or drink themselves to sleep at the bar. No-one gave a second thought to the young couple seated near the window, hand in hand, silently anticipating the boarding call.
Nursing a bourbon and coke in one hand, Zac stared out at the enormous planes being taxied in and out of their hangers. Guessing which runway they'd take off from was a fairly engaging past-time. Silently stroking Miri's hand with his thumb was the best he could do to avoid thinking about the loneliness. It'd be his constant companion for the next six months-or-more, he'd get to know it well enough then.
Miriam simply gazed around the lounge, watching passengers and eavesdropping on conversations. Anything to take her mind off thought.
The poorly-hidden misery on both their faces spoke for itself; this was a parting neither of them had desired.
"Boarding call for passengers on flight 779038, nonstop to Los Angeles,"
It was a few moments before they reacted to the cheerfully false voice over the PA system. They both stood.
"I . . . I guess, um . . . I guess I'll –" her attempt at words he stilled with his lips. It was fiery, almost desperate, his attempt to find in a single kiss enough of her to endure six long months on the road.
"I'll call as soon as I get there," Miriam didn't trust herself to speak, she nodded. One last time, he ran shaking fingers through her loose hair. "Six months, that's all. It's not that long,"
"Six months," her echo was vague, hollow. A final brushing of his lips against her forehead; he forced himself to walk towards the gate.
"Zac," he turned back to her emotion-wrought face, "I love you,"
"Love you too, hon," a tiny smile stretched the corners of his mouth, even as water filled his amber eyes.

She never saw him again.


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