Tomorrow

Cindy made a point to moan and breathe heavily. It wasn't Wendy's best work, but she wanted Wendy to feel good about everything she did. And it was certainly good enough to make her cum after several minutes of continuous and dedicated attention.

Wendy was gasping as the exertion, combined with the attempt to breath and intake cum at the same time, proved to be more than she could handle.

Cindy heard how labored her lover's breath was and quickly scooted down Wendy's body. She stopped long enough to mesh lips again, tasting her own juices as they melded with Wendy's lipstick. Then she moved down a little further, taking Wendy's sensitive nipples into her mouth and sucking on them. Then she moved on again, kissing her lover's naval before finally reaching Wendy's already outspread thighs.

"It's like you were expecting this," Cindy said slyly.

"Who? Me?" was the not-so-innocent response.

"Yeah, you." Cindy touched her tongue to Wendy's clit, flicking it quickly and seeing what kind of response she got. When Wendy moaned lightly, she knew that the woman was still very much in the mood. 'The mind is willing,' she thought as she devoured her lover alive.

Despite her arousal, Wendy felt herself growing very tired very quickly. But she knew that Cindy wouldn't stop until SHE felt that Wendy had been satisfied. So she relaxed and just let everything build inside her, lapping first like gentle waves and building to the crescendo of a tsunami.

'This is taking a lot longer than usual,' Cindy thought glumly. But she continued on, working her fingers and tongue into Wendy's body like participants in an intricate dance. 'Poke here, tug there,' she thought. 'Soon . . .'

But "soon" turned out to be several minutes away, despite Cindy's best efforts. Normally, she wouldn't care so much about the time it took, but she wanted so much to know that Wendy had enjoyed herself. She wanted to cuddle and talk . . .

Wendy sighed as her body gave a little shiver and she groaned happily. "You never cease to deliver," she said, chuckling and then giving off a slight cough.

Cindy crawled down the bed and brought the covers with her, pressing her body close to Wendy's and cocooning them in warmth.

"It'll be okay," Wendy said before Cindy could utter a word.

Cindy found herself wishing with all her heart that it would be as her lover promised.

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Four hours later . . .

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Cindy's eyes shot open, taking it the faint blue light that permeated the room. She slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom. But on returning, her eyes noticed the time listed on the clock. The numbers "3:35" had never seemed so ominous before. It was the next day . . . when Wendy said she would be leaving.

"Please be wrong," Cindy said, her eyes welling up and her head throbbing. "Just this once, be wrong." She walked to the bed and knelt, looking at Wendy's face. Her eyes were open . . . Cindy could tell that much. But they weren't looking at Cindy . . . they were staring at where Cindy had been laying.

"No," Cindy muttered, her breathing becoming ragged and labored. She reached out and put her fingers against Wendy's throat. "No!" she shouted, flicking on the light. She pushed the covers back and placed her ear against Wendy's pale . . . too pale . . . naked chest.

Cindy would have screamed, but the noise died in her throat. Wendy hadn't been wrong . . . she had known. Cindy was crying in earnest now . . . there were other things she could try, but she knew in her heart what the results would be. She looked at Wendy's form and cried some more. She managed to reach up and close those eyes . . . that was when she noticed Wendy's hair. That damn wig that Wendy had insisted on wearing . . . it was her last real vanity. Cindy had tried to tell her she was always beautiful, but Wendy . . . Wendy had to hold on to that one thing.

Cindy had never felt so alone in her life. The room where she had experienced so much pleasure those last few years suddenly seemed too cold and far too small. She rushed to the bathroom and threw up, which just added to the pounding in her head and made her feel even more stale inside.

Finally . . . she wasn't sure how long it had been . . . she composed herself enough to do what needed to be done. She stood up and walked to the table where her work clothes were nicely folded. There was a rose on her work shirt . . . it hadn't been there the night before.

'Wendy did that,' she thought. Wendy had always loved roses. She pulled her light blue slacks on first, then her flowery shirt. Next came the shoes and finally her nametag . . . "Cindy Regal: Springfield Valley Hospice."

She sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the table and just stared. Her hand kept drifting to the phone, but she would pull it back like she was being threatened by a snake. The moment she picked up that phone . . . the moment she made the call . . . then it was official. She kept hoping in the back of her mind that it wasn't going to happen . . . that Wendy was going to open her eyes and tell her she was being a fuddy-duddy. She looked at the clock again. It was 4:01 a.m. Then she watched the digits flicker and change . . . "4:02 a.m."

She steeled her shoulders and lifted the receiver, hitting only a single button for the front desk.

"Yes, Ms. Layfield?" came a warm, manly Jamaican voice. "What'choo doin' up this early?"

Cindy sniffed. "It's not Ms. Layfield," she uttered in a horse voice. "This is Cindy."

"Cindy! You startin' yer rounds awfully early," Bobby said slyly. While everyone knew that that relationships with the patients were technically prohibited, everyone at the hospice liked Wendy and were willing to look the other way in this case. Cindy had made her so happy the last few years.

"Bobby . . . she's gone."

Silence at the other end. "Gone?"

"Yeah," Cindy said. "She died last night in her sleep."

"Stay there," Bobby said, his heart obviously breaking. "I'll send someone."

Cindy put down the phone and placed her face in her hands. But all she could do was ache, because she was fresh out of tears. While she waited for someone to arrive, she adjusted Wendy's hair and kissed her on the cheek, but she refused to say goodbye.

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Three days later . . .

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'She lied,' Cindy thought as she sat quietly in the front row of the hall. 'She promised it would get easier.'

She heard a low murmur coming from behind her. The room was packed. Wendy had many friends in life, and a great deal of family who had loved her dearly. She was someone who had never been wanting for a friendly ear or a friendly word, and she had offered her own to many over her life.

The bench next to her creaked a little and she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you ready?" came a feminine voice. It was Maria, Wendy's sister.

Cindy turned and hugged the girl who had been like a sister to her from the moment they had met. Cindy loved all of Wendy's family. That hadn't been one of those families that put there loved ones into assisted living as soon as it became uncomfortable for them to have her around. It had been Wendy's choice to live at the hospice. She hadn't wanted to put anyone out. Every one of them had kept in constant contact with Wendy, visiting as often as Wendy had been able to stand being doted on.

Finally Cindy nodded and walked up to the little podium facing the crowd, which quieted automatically.

"On behalf of the Layfield family, I'd like to thank everyone for coming," Cindy said. Then she paused. "I find myself in the unenviable position of trying to come up with words to describe the life of someone who used words to make her living. Since I don't think I could ever live up to her example, I'll just make this short and sweet. Especially since I could almost hear her telling me to hurry it up, since that casket isn't going to bury itself."

There was a chuckle that emanated from the collective throng. That's just the kind of thing that Wendy would have said.

"I met Wendy just over two years ago," Cindy began. "She had already been fighting cancer for a year at that point. Right away, I knew she was different. There was no moping . . . none of that doubt I've seen in all my years of nursing. The second her family had left, she was bugging me to get her a rum and coke so she could have something to drink while watching her soap operas." Another laugh ensued. "I knew immediately that this woman was going to be my friend. I didn't realize . . . realize at the time," she continued, trying not to choke on her own words, "that 'friend' was just the first stop on our relationship. I had seen some courageous people in my time, but no one with the kind of fire that she had. It was like the cancer was just a footnote in her life . . . not the last chapter. By the time I met her, she was six months past when she had been told she was going to die anyway. I don't think she had cheated death so much as she chose to ignore it . . . like a guy hitting on you at the bar even after you've told him you aren't interested."

Cindy smiled and looked at Wendy's family. "She told me that she was never afraid of dying, because she had already accomplished almost everything she could ever want . . . had a good family life . . . a good career where she wrote a lot of books that made people feel good. I asked her if there was anything she still wanted out of life. She just gave me this sly look at said, 'We'll just have to see.' It took me a year to figure out that she'd been talking about me." She chuckled. "That bitch was always one step ahead of me."

The crowd laughed louder. Even the ones who were trying to be somber had to chuckle. Wendy had never been too keen on propriety on good manners. She thought they were pompous devices of stagnant minds.

But Cindy's mood sobered a bit. "I had been in a lot of relationships before Wendy, but being with her made me feel more alive than anyone I had ever met. No one had ever made me throw away all the protocols and just enjoy every day of life like she did, and for that . . . for that Wendy, I will always love you and be grateful to you." Cindy had to pause and collect herself. "Even the day before . . . before she died, she was ready to live one more day. And she knew . . . I don't know how, but she knew." She met the eyes of each family member, one at a time. "I showed up at her apartment early and she told me . . . she told me that she felt a peace in her heart and her soul and . . . and that her time was just about over. She told me that she wouldn't live to see another sunrise and . . . and that she wanted to make each remaining hour last as long as she could."

Cindy stopped and wiped her eyes. This was hurting her more than she could have imagined. Wendy's belief was no longer a hypothetical . . . it was a reality.

"I didn't believe her . . . or maybe I just didn't want to. But I called in sick and promised her that I would give her a day we could both remember. She just smiled . . . spent some time talking to family on the phone and packing up belongings so no one else would have to deal with them while I was supposed to figure out what to do. And damn her, she made it easy! She knew with such clarity what was going to happen and . . . and yet all she wanted was dinner and a show . . . a glass of wine and some . . . company," Cindy added, blushing furiously. "Things that we had done so many times . . . but this one I'll remember until the end of days." She looked over the crowd. "I would like to think that I . . . that we ALL . . . could learn a thing or two from her. I hope that the love I'll keep in my heart from now until my time comes will provide me with the joy of life that she kept in hers all these years. And that when I am facing my last 'tomorrow,' that I will do so with the same humor and dignity with which she left this world."

Cindy stopped for the last time and slowly made her way to her seat. Wendy's mom took Cindy's trembling hand and thanked her for everything she had done . . . for everything she had been to her daughter. But Cindy barely heard her . . . she realized that inside, she had finally said goodbye.

But somewhere in her mind . . . or maybe somewhere deeper . . . she heard Wendy's voice one more time. She heard that promise that this wouldn't be forever . . . that they'd be together again someday. And the thought of seeing Wendy again . . . somehow or somewhere . . . made Cindy's own "tomorrow" seem much more bearable.

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The End . . .