"No worries."
Now piss off, Ed, I think as I walk out. It's what she was thinking, I'm sure.
I like being Jimmy.
"Remember when you used to read to me, Jimmy?"
"I remember," I reply.
Needless to say, I'm at Milla's place again, in the evening.
She reaches out her hand and holds me by the arm. "Could you pick up a book and read me a few pages? I love the sound of your voice."
"Which book?" I ask when I reach the cabinet.
"My favorite," she answers.
Shit....I rummage through the books that stand up in my eyes. Which one's her favorite?
But it doesn't matter.
Whichever book I pick will be her favorite.
"Wuthering Heights?" I suggest.
"How did you know?"
"Instinct," I say, and begin reading.
She falls asleep on the lounge after a few pages, and I wake her and help her to bed.
"Good night, Jimmy."
"Good night, Milla."
As I walk home, something writes itself to the edge of my mind. It's a piece of paper that was in the book, used as a bookmark. It was just a normal thin piece of pad paper, all yellow and old. The date said 1.5.41, and there was one small piece of typically scratchy male writing on it. A bit like my own writing.
It said:
Dearest Milla,
My soul needs yours.
Love,
Jimmy
During the next visit, she gets out her old photo albums and we look through them. She constantly points out a man who holds her or kisses her or just stands there on his own.
"You were always so handsome," she tells me. She even touches Jimmy's face on the photos, and I see what it is to love someone like Milla loved that man. Her fingertips are made of love. When she speaks, her voice is made of love. "You've changed quite a bit now, but you still look good. You always were the most handsome boy in town. All the girls said so. Even my mother told me how great you were, how loving and strong, and how I had to do good by you and treat you right." She looks at me now, almost panic-stricken. "I did right by you, Jimmy--didn't I? I treated you right, didn't I?"
I melt.
I melt and look her in her old but lovely eyes. "You did right by me, Milla. You treated me right. You were the best wife I could have ever--"
And that's when she breaks down and cries into my sleeve. She cries and cries and laughs. She shakes with such despair and joy, and her tears soak, nice and warm, through to my arm.
She offers me mud cake after a while. It's the one I brought her a few days ago.