The steaming coffee cup sat on the pine wood kitchen table. Its cold black surface was still and glassy, reflecting the image of the tired old man. His hand trembled, joints weary as he lifted the terribly heavy cup to his lips and sipped silently. Blue veins protruded from the back of his hand, gnarled and twisted from years of wear and age. He tapped the side of the cup with a calloused fingertip. A sparkle of gold shined from the band on his third finger. His black suit jacket laid carefully on the back of his chair. He loosened his tie with the crook of his index finger and sighing, he scratched the back of his leg with the toe of his polished penny loafer and ran his fingers through the few wisps of hair that remained on the top of his scalp.

            The full blue moon shone through the flower patterned curtains that framed the windows. Her choice, obviously. They were far too feminine for him, too soft, too womanly. But she loved them, so there they hung. Crickets outside in the dewy grass sang their mournful tunes in a silent serenade. A few bright stars stopped twinkling, and the night was still. In the kitchen, a pale yellow light seeped down from the ceiling fixture and slithered between the crevices and cracks of the otherwise dark room. White cabinets lined the walls of the kitchen, white tiles laid in perfect rows across the floor. A few decorations hung here and there, a few bright pictures covered the refrigerator, also white. Other than these remnants of the outside world, the kitchen was cold and seemingly sterile. Unwelcoming.

            Suddenly losing his desire for the coffee, he stood, joints popping. In the silence of the house, the chair creaked loudly in protest. Shuffling to the sink, he poured the vile fluid down the drain, slowly so to avoid splattering. She hated that: brown stains on the white tile counter tops. Rinsing the cup with a splash of tap water, he settled the dish into the washer, then dried his hands on the carnation embroidered towel, also her choice, that hung lifelessly on the ring attached to the cabinet nearby.

            “I’m going to bed. I’m tired tonight.” he told her. She didn’t respond. He had sensed the tension, the awkward silence, that deafening silence that lingered in the house for the past few days. His heart strained. He said nothing more and timidly continued out of the kitchen, leaving the light on for her.

            Taking hold of the finely polished oak banister, he balanced himself before placing his foot on the step. A dim light in the hallway above cast long shadows on the stairway. Faces in the walls watched silently as he made his way up, slowly but surely. His back hunched, shoulders slouched, he relied heavily on the rail for a safe ascend.             Glass from the photos gleamed in the cast light, but if one moved a slight right or left, they would see the smiling faces each framed. One particular photo was showcasing a fair young woman, dressed in her Sunday best, a creamy white complexion illuminated a bright aureole around the figure. Curious, deep blue eyes peered out beneath the brim of a straw woven hat. Tails of a beige ribbon flailed in the wind behind her, clinging onto the hat desperately. A string of simple wildflowers were tucked snugly into the ribbons grasp. She smiled, her essence eternally captured in the photo. A photo worthy enough to be placed beside it showed a strong, broad man in a crisply pressed evergreen uniform and a beret of the same shade. Pins and patches added decoration to the dull wardrobe. His wide-set chin jut out proudly as he stood at attention with a streak of red, white, and blue shining behind him.

            As the walk up the stairs continued, more photos were revealed. A young man and woman surprised by the sudden click of the camera’s shutter, caught in a close embrace. The same couple walking hand in hand along the shoreline of the eastern beach. The next photo found them a few years later, laughing, surrounded by familiar faces and friends. One after that shows the youthful woman sitting upright with a new baby wrapped tightly in the crook of her arm. A timeline along the stairs, his life passed before his eyes as quickly as he raised his foot to the next step. At the top, he stopped at the final picture. Wrinkled and worn, the two sat side by side, arms around one another. Her hair was neatly curled in cascades of silver and white about her face; his white tufts of hair crowned the back of his head and temples. Her tired blue eyes stared back at him, bright as the sky, vibrant as new life, despite the years they’d seen. He raised his hand and allowed his fingertips to gently brush against her face in the photo.

            “I love you.” he said aloud, letting his voice float down the stairs and into the kitchen below. She still didn’t answer. He sighed and turned down the hall to their bedroom. Pushing open the door, he slipped into the darkness, fumbling for the light switch. When his fingers finally struck the plastic, he hesitated before flipping it. When the light clicked on, he shielded his eyes from the brightness for a moment.

            Making his way to the bed, he placed his hands unsteadily on his knees and crouched to fall against the soft down. Tensing his spine to remain upright, his eyes fell upon his wedding photo on the nightstand. Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to blink them away but they came all too fast for him. Trembling, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. She slipped into the room and sat beside him on the bed, taking his hand in her own. He looked up at her, seeing the same vibrant eyes in the beautifully youthful face he recalled from so many years ago.

            He reached out and pulled open the drawer to the nightstand. The metal gleamed in the light of the lamp. Clutching the nickel-plated pistol in his shaking hand, he placed the barrel to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

            The man grabbed her hand and the young couple slipped out and descended together down the stairs, arm in arm, flowing against the current of time, immortalized on the stairway wall. Neither gave a second thought to the elderly man in the room above with a bullet lodged in his temple and a tear in the corner of his eye. He laid on the floor, the gun smoking beside his head. His hand uncurled, revealing a simple gold wedding ring fixed with a delicate diamond.