“Until I see his body in a coffin, I’ll believe he’s alive.”
She regarded me somberly. “Is that what you felt when you went to claim Nigel’s body?”
“Yes. I was certain it was an insane joke. I was certain that once we arrived in Bombay, it would be to learn he’d missed the flight, or that he’d somehow managed to survive. I often dream of that day. I walk into the morgue, and the tech rolls out the body. It’s charred beyond recognition, and I say, ‘This isn’t my husband. The body is too short, too thin.’ The tech tells me it’s because of the fire. ‘No, it can’t be my husband.’ And then I hear Nigel say, ‘It’s not.’ I turn around, and he’s standing there with that lock of hair spilling into his eyes, his smile crooked. I throw myself into his arms, wanting to kill him for giving me such a fright, wanting to kiss him because he’s alive.”
“But of course he isn’t.”