Jennifer Blackheath danced naked in a forest of towering evergreens.
Around her, tiny multihued butterflies darted, spun, and floated in
tremulous circles like all the flowers of the earth come to life. A
thousand, ten thousand diaphanous, powdered wings brushed lightly
against her flesh. Entranced, she opened her eyes, laughed, and said,
"Oh! Pretty!"
And then nothing.
Sewal Blackheath placed his wife s slim, fragile hand beneath the
sheet and brushed the tips of his index and middle fingers across her
eyelids. When he straightened, the black horsehair upholstery
pricked through his white shirt. Face bland, he ran still calloused
fingers through his iron-gray hair.
"Goddamn it, Jenny," he said, trying to divest himself of the una-
voidable guilt stemming from his relief that her six months dying
had at last ended. He was angry with himself and with her and with
himself all the more, and repeated, "Goddamn it, Jennifer. Goddamn
it!" The words helped alleviate the terrible ache in his throat, but not
by much. He told himself that Blacldaeath men were not given to
crying.
Guilt. Enough of guilt, he admonished himself. Unable to bring his
lips to her thin, pale ones, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her
forehead. Seventeen years and three months earlier he had kissed her
for the first time. This would be the last. That she had not yet
reached her thirty-fifth birthday-Jennifer had been so full of life and
laughter-was a sorrow Sewal held at arm s length.
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