Once upon a time
Agatha was reclusive. She came outside of her upper east side 4-story home once a week for a walk in Central Park. Other days, she likes to stay indoors and observe the passerby from her 2nd floor window, overlooking the street. Every day at 2pm, she enjoys a cup of Chrysanthemum tea with raspberry scone.
Despite her vintage, Agatha’s features still retained the beauty from her early 40s. Her skin soft, slightly wrinkled, and hair always finely combed in a French twist. She wore a rogue Dior #42 and preferred Giorgio Armani over Channel.
Aga, nicknamed by her husband Wilhelm, was piano prodigy. They had met during a performance in the Vienna Philharmonic Symphony. He was cultured, soft-spoken and the direct fourth generation of a Rothchild. Their courtship was short and sweet. Agatha accepted his proposal after the 3rd date in a French Café.
They had no children and enjoyed a comfortable life. All that changed after he joined spontaneously on an expedition across the Atlantic to satisfy his adventure cravings. Wilhelm’s crew left Southampton, UK and never returned. The crew was presumed to be lost at sea. He left Agatha his enormous fortune and his cigar pipe collection. Agatha was a devoted widow. Even after 50 years since his passing, she only wore black or monochrome ritually.
On a late spring day, returning home from her weekly promenade, she met him. Again.
“Agatha Newman?”
He called from behind.
She kept walking, didn’t even recognize her own maiden name.
“Agatha?”
He called out again, louder.
She turned around and he walked into her view. His hair was silvery gray and he was clothed in a pristine fitted navy suit and carrying a wooden cane. She recognized his face immediately, despite the decade of years that has passed by.
Thomas Reed? She whispered at first softly and incredulously. Confirmed by his soft nod, she was immediately filled with emotions.
“How is this possible.”
She shuddered.
“Yes. Yes. Agatha, it’s been a long time.”
He walked cautiously closer to her, until he stood just inches away from her face. She notices the tears in the corner of his eyes reflected by the sunlight.
They stayed in silence: neither talking, no movement. Everything simply still.
She held her gaze toward him. But it was too bright, Agatha was facing the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes for just a moment and blinked.
He was suddenly gone.
“Was it real or a thought?”
She asked herself.
She felt his breathe on her hair, his amber musk cologne, and the warmth of his stance drawing the wind away. How could it not be real?
Thomas had been buried in her memory long ago before she had decided to move to America. She grieved his passing tremendously. He was spirited and charming, starting sentences often with “Agatha, happy wife, happy life.” Despite his lightheartedness, their time together was often dampened by the realities of being on opposite spectrums of the British social class. They had plans to elope. But that never took place.
Another rush of thoughts flashes through her eye and she felt his touch and his breathe again. It was surreal. So familiar yet so strange. Not for 80 years, has Agatha felt such tenderness or her body awoken in such way. She was swept away. A hair pin falls behind her ear and her white hair unravels gently down her back. The lace in her skirt danced in the wind. Against the backdrop of the glowing orange sun, she was radiating and warm. Her heart pounded in excitement and the corners of her lips lifted into a smile as she relived their passionate moments.
“No.”
A voice interjected. And she snapped back to reality.
He was gone, again. The breeze suddenly turned violent and she felt the chill in her body. Just like the night he left for the war, he left without saying a word, or even a note. He stepped out without ever looking back and he left her with a shattered broken heart.
The clouds rolled in and the sky turned granite gray. Agatha couldn’t distinguish how long she had stood on the paved path, but the scenery had changed drastically. There were no more sounds of children playing, the piano jazz or cyclist bell ring. She was alone again and for a brief moment, she enjoyed a beautiful dream.
