Arabella

           He was gone. Lying in the casket was his husk. It looked nothing like him. It smelled nothing like him. He was too pale and still. Stan wasn't like that. Stan was boisterous, vibrant, joyful. Arabella should've gone against his will and transformed him.

            "I'm immortal, Stan. A vampire, actually." She remembered how much she had dreaded that confession. Even now she felt nervous remembering that moment in a moonlit park, the autumnal leaves drifting and swirling around them, filling the air with their woody scent.

           "That explains a lot, actually," he drawled.

           "I can make you like me. Then we can be together forever."

           "No. I don't think immortality would suit me. Best if I just grow old and die-- the entire human experience."

           He never changed his mind. Stan never complained to her once in the fifty-seven years together about getting older and frailer while she remained the unchanging and faithful forty-something lover. She never complained as his steps became slower, when he needed a walker for support, and finally, at 94 she was pushing him in the wheelchair. His mind was still sharp and the conversation, as always, was amazing.

           They met in 1967-- the summer of love at the cocktail party of a mutual acquaintance. Arabella couldn't remember the acquaintance, but she remembered the room, the apple green carpet, the burnt orange accessories. The room reveled in its modernity. The myriad scent of humans, their perfumes, hairsprays, pomades, and laundry soap. The hors d’oeuvres they nibbled at, whether it was the cheeseball, deviled eggs, or pigs in a blanket in between sips of wine or martinis. A deep, Southern voice caught her attention, and she found its owner the center of attention, regaling listeners with a story about a deer that sauntered into his father's hardware store when he was a teenager. Arabella was drawn to him. By the end of the party they had shared several stories. By the end of the night they were talking like old friends. A month later they were an item.

           Why didn't he want to be immortal? That was the one thing about him she never understood. Somehow it made him more dear to her. Perhaps because she knew there was a finite time with him. Now it had come to an end. It was the greatest love she had ever known in three hundred years. A sob choked her, strangling, and forcing its way to the surface. A loud cry escaped her throat. She covered her mouth. It came away wet with the tears streaming from her eyes. She didn't realize she had been weeping. Part of her wanted to immolate herself on his grave like some ancient women might have done. She wouldn't. She would let this grief pierce and torture her. It would consume her before it spat her out again-- still whole and alive. Then what?

           Then what? That was the question she kept asking herself. What did you do after spending a mortal lifetime with someone? What had she done before she met Stan? Those things she did were distant, lonely memories. Those things she did then wouldn’t work in this modern age of computers and connectivity. Arabella wiped the tears from her face before they dripped down her neck. Even losing everyone she knew as a mortal had not caused her this much anguish.

           The funeral service went exactly as planned. Everyone they knew, many of Stan's old clients, and long-time friends were in attendance. More than a few leaned on their children or used walkers or wheelchairs. Arabella was a gracious widow in mourning. The eulogy was given by their godson, the child of Stan's old business partner, Danny, who died some twenty years ago. Jake was the closest thing they had to a child of their own. Danny and Patty. Patty was a couple years older than Danny and she had died from leukemia when she was five. Did Danny remember his older sister? Patty’s illness caused an ache throughout their tightly knit suburban neighborhood. How could cancer take one so young? Could they cure that cancer now? She couldn’t remember, but she thought they could. She ached for the little girl who used to skip through their yards. That was the problem with living so long. When someone died, you thought of the others you lost and the memories cascade and collide. At least the memories were from this century… no, wait. Patty and Danny now belonged in the twentieth century, not the twenty-first century.

           "Auntie Arabella and Uncle Stan were always there for me. Even when my parents died, they were there to help me deal with everything. Auntie Arabella, I hope you know that I'll always be here for you. " He held her gaze for a long moment. If only this young man could be there—young man-- that's when Arabella realized Jake was in his fifties. He wasn’t a young man still in college or fresh-faced working his way up in Danny and Stan’s business. Time had flown by while she was with Stan.

           The sun was setting when everyone gathered at the grave. The surge of energy and the feral lust for blood that bubbled inside Arabella at the same time every night woke her from her reverie. It wouldn't do to tear out the throat of one of the mourners. She would have to wait until this service was over, a few minutes longer. At least it was something besides grief to focus on.

           She was alone in the cemetery. She had disappeared long enough for the backhoe to cover Stan's coffin. She slaked her hunger elsewhere. She could still smell the poor homeless woman on her lips. The wretch had let anger, grief, opiates, and alcohol consume her, throwing away her family, friends, and home. Arabella felt the woman’s relief as her life eked out of her at long last. That could be her, Arabella realized. She could let hunger, anger, and grief turn her into a monster that was nothing but misery in human form. She could live the rest of her days a tortured soul. She could not let that happen. That would dishonor Stan's memory and she refused to dishonor the man she adored.

           She stood at the foot of his grave, her shoes sinking slightly in the soft, overturned earth. The light from the half-moon was bright in the early summer. "I'm leaving, my love, but it's only so I don't let grief destroy what you loved."