They are old, though he is much older than her.
He is a wise being, not much is left in the world and even less is known about them.
How they came to be? What powers they have?
All we know is that they age slower than the average human.
In my dream, two lovers meet and fall in love.
She is 18, he is 68.
She’s the kind to meet his kisses almost fearlessly, to meet him halfway when he reaches for her. Her love is spawn from a kind of foolishness that is so naive it’s pitiful.
He thinks he is humoring her young soul when he kisses her, but his heartstrings are tugged and before he knows it, it’s too late.
She is 27 and he is 77 when it’s just about right.
Their bodies are about the same age-wise physically at this point.
Mentally she is able to keep up with him, now. No longer are her stories an excuse to talk nor her choices so petty. She’s grown into an intelligent woman. The PhD on their bedroom wall is a lovely reminder.
They still make love, although it is less adventurous, there is something more wholesome about it. As he reaches up and frames her face, he can’t imagine being happier.
His kind cannot have children. It’s never researched why. They don’t discuss it. Only one night did she hold his hand and rest her head on his shoulder did the both of them allow their sorrow to show.
She is 48, he is 98.
He knows she is getting old, and him, far older.
He debates leaving her.
He sits in the car, drumming his fingers and looking at his house. An hour passes by when he finally makes his descision.
He opens the door and walks in as he always does— dropping his keys on table, taking off his coat, and neatly taking off his shoes.
Just as he is about to break things off, he catches sight of her.
She is old, but still sparked with adventure. She is wiser, but still had that foolish, fearless love in her eyes. She is his.
That mouth. Those eyes.
He could never leave her.
She is 78. He is dying.
He tells her he has to go home, that his clan calls him.
He won’t die in a filthy town.
He won’t die here.
When she begs him not to go, he looks at her with a familiar possessive look.
He tells her she’s coming with him.
I won’t die here, he tells her.
And I won’t die there, she tells him.
The words settle in and he finally realizes what she intends to do. Before he could say anything she is crying and hugging him goodbye.
She intends to stay there, in their mortal town, while he goes back to his clan to die.
She intends to die seperately from him.
She intends to die alone.
He is too old to feel blind fury, too tired to face her stubbornness.
He asks for her to see him off. She agrees.
They travel the desert, hand in hand, for any sign of a wandering race too lost and fantastic to be written in history books.
It is on their ninth night out that she begins to wither away.
He is cradling her head and whispering old love songs to her.
It was a good life, he says.
It was amazing, she replies and there’s that spark of humor in her eyes again. He watches that spark glisten before dying out as her body goes limp in his arms.
She is dead and he is too.
The next time she wakes up she is formless.
If you were to ask her how dying was, she would tell you the story of how as a young child she would close her eyes in the pool and let her body stay afloat on the surface. That slow movement of rocking and swaying on an uncontrollable current, that is what death is like.
She felt anchor less.
She doesn’t know how many years, centuries, or millenniums passed before she felt something tug at her.
His being latched onto her, like a barnacle. Their enjoined point of touching created a warmth that one could feel to the tip of their toes.
Together, they passed on through the stream of the afterlife, floating and waiting to be reborn.
Maybe this time they might even be the same age.