Mark Delgado shuffled slowly towards his kitchen, his slippered feet making almost no noise on the polished wooden floor. Though there was a time in the past when he used to make fun of his mother for wearing slippers instead of proper shoes indoors, he found that, in his old age, wearing shoes all day was simply too much strain on his aging arches. Now, it was he that was being made fun of for the comfortable house shoes he always had on. It had become a favorite jibe of his nephew who loved to remark on his Uncle Mark's pressed corduroy slacks, laundered button down shirts, and flimsy slippers.
Still, Mark's visits from his nephew Vic were always the highlight of his week. Being a gay bachelor who was always too afraid to meet other men, Mark now had no one in his life with whom to share his old age. No children, no companion, and not even a pet due to his allergies. At 65 years of age, Mark held no delusions that he would find anyone who would be interested in him now. Once a very handsome young man, Mark now joked that his beauty had faded away with his feet.
Upon entering the kitchen, Mark turned the flame on under a tea kettle filled with water and headed towards his pantry to grab the tin containing his precious Heritage No. 42 Earl Grey tea. Even though it was a bit of an expense, he had it shipped to him every month from Harrod's in London. Having experienced this particular tea blend while visiting London as a younger man, Mark found that its delicious citrusy flavor still reminded him of his time in England and thought the expense was justified.
Just as he placed his slippered foot onto the first step of the pantry stepladder, Mark felt himself lose his balance and fall forward, striking his head first on the wooden shelving and then on the corner of the stainless steel Viking range. For a moment, he felt as if he were floating away before his eyesight failed him, and he blacked out.
Returning to consciousness, Mark found himself laying on his back on his kitchen floor. His head was slightly achy and he had trouble focusing his eyes at first, but eventually he managed to get back to his feet. Chuckling ruefully at his clumsiness, Mark resolved not to tell his nephew Vic of his fall feeling that the news would only worry him. Grabbing the boiling water off of the stove for his cup of Earl Grey, Mark settled into his favorite leather chair and looked out towards the cul de sac to people watch. Oddly enough, he saw no one outdoors. The children who normally rode their bikes on the rounded street were nowhere to be seen. Their parents weren't outside watering their carefully maintained yards and gossiping across the hedges either. Now, that was unusual.
Suddenly, movement from across the street caught his eye. There was a man standing on the sidewalk across the way. He was oddly dressed for a summer evening, Mark thought, with his black suit and black fedora. Surely those dark clothes just absorbed the sun's heat. As the old man continued to watch him, the oddly dressed stranger crossed the street, walking very casually as if he had no particular destination in mind. But even so, it appeared to Mark that the dark suited man's eyes had locked on to his own. Mark began to feel slightly apprehensive, his heart beating faster and his palms growing moist with perspiration.
For some morbid reason, Mark found himself remembering one of his grandmother's old Mexican folktales. She used to say that she would know when it was her time to die because death would come for her dressed in black. "I don't know exactly what he will look like, mijo," she used to say, "but he will be dressed from head to toe in the darkest black and carrying a silver guadaña, a scythe, to separate my soul from the ties of this world."
Looking quickly at the approaching figure, Mark could see that the man was younger than he had originally thought, looking like he was in his mid-twenties. The severely dark suit had given him the air of someone much older. He had pale skin and pale eyes that were set in the most beautiful face Mark had ever seen. From what Mark could tell, he was slender without being thin. It was more of a physique typical of an Olympic diver than anything else, and if anyone could make that comparison, it was Mark. He had always loved the summer Olympics, not just for the competition, but for the simple reason that he had always admired the sleek and muscular forms of the swimmers.
His reverie cut short by a knock at the door, Mark put down his cup of Earl Grey and rose to answer the front door. Opening the heavy mahogany door with a small amount of trepidation (Thanks Grandma, he thought) Mark saw the man in black standing on his porch. Looking quickly for a large scythe, he chuckled slightly when he didn't see one in evidence.
Frowning at Mark's laugh, the man said, "I'm sorry, is something funny, sir?"
Shaking his head and smiling, Mark answered, "No, no, I am sorry for that. I meant no disrespect to you, young man. Is there something I can help you with?"
Looking at him up close, Mark could see that his original assessment was correct. The person at his door was the most attractive man he had ever seen. His eyes were actually a light blue and his skin pale enough to be almost translucent. It was clear to Mark that he didn't get much sun. As the stranger removed his hat for politeness sake, Mark could see that his hair was blonde.
"I hope so, sir," the man responded. "My name is Gregory Sterling, and I am looking for Mark Delgado. I am hoping that he lives here. You see, I've been asked by an acquaintance of mine to find him and deliver this letter." Pulling a buff colored envelope out of his coat pocket, the man continued "You see, he dictated a letter on his deathbed to Mark Delgado, confessing that he had loved him for years in silence and wanted him to finally know."
Mark stepped back in shock. A man had loved him? Loved him without his knowledge and didn't want to take that secret to his grave? Intrigued at the story the young Gregory had related, Mark invited him in. Once they arrived into the parlor, Gregory sat in one of the armchairs, his black clad legs draped casually one over the other. As Mark sat in the other armchair, he cast his admiring eye over the young man once again. Seeing the way he moved, the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke with his hands, Mark was certain that young Gregory was gay himself. Gregory's "acquaintance" very well may have been an older man who enjoyed the younger's companionship and love. It was possible.
Grabbing his reading glasses and unfolding the letter, Mark read the words in silence. He recognized the name of Gregory's mysterious companion, an old college chum named Sebastian Moran. According to the letter, Sebastian had fallen in love with Mark almost immediately, but was too frightened to admit his own homosexuality. He had eventually married, had children, and refused to acknowledge his attraction for other men. As a result, he had suffered anxiety and depression throughout most of his life, and shared a bitter and loveless marriage with someone who deserved better. Now that he was dying, he wanted to finally tell the world about who he really was.
Mark put the letter down in his lap. He couldn't believe what he was reading. He remembered Sebastian quite clearly. He had been a beautifully built blonde man, very attractive and quiet. He remembered even having a slight crush on him for a while. Now, wasn't that ironic. If only one of them had admitted to their attraction, each of their lives may have turned out so differently. Perhaps he and Sebastian would have fallen in love and even spent their lives together. Mark wouldn't have had such a lonely life; perhaps Sebastian would have had a happier one.
Looking up at Gregory, Mark finally noticed the resemblance the young man had to his memory of Sebastian. "You are his son, aren't you, Gregory."
Gregory didn't answer. He just stood up and held out his hand. "I was asked to dance with you once before I left, if it's okay with you, Mark."
With tears in his eyes, Mark placed a CD in his stereo system and punched in the track number of a slow song. Feeling Gregory's hands on his shoulders, Mark turned and put his arms around the beautiful young man. Deep down, Mark was thinking that he should be feeling weirded out about what was happening, but for some reason, he felt relaxed and happy in Gregory's arms. With his eyes closed and his head upon Gregory's shoulder, Mark didn't see Gregory take a silver blade out of his coat pocket. Even when the spectral cords that bound him to the mortal world were severed, Mark continued to dance in the arms of the beautiful man in black, imagining he was young again.
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Vic Delgado, Mark's nephew finally arrived at his uncle's home. There were two police cars and an ambulance parked there already. As Vic entered the familiar home, he steeled himself for what he was about to see.
"Mr. Delgado?" one of the officers asked. At Vic's nod, the officer said, "If you would come into the kitchen, sir, we are waiting for you there."
In the kitchen, thought Vic, how ironic. It was Uncle Mark's favorite room in the whole house. As soon as he walked in, Vic could see his uncle's dead body lying on the floor. He was dressed in his favorite pants and house shoes. Vic smiled slightly at that. He never could understand how his uncle, always so neatly dressed, could love those ratty looking shoes.
After identifying his uncle's body, Vic asked if the police could tell what had happened. They explained that they couldn't say anything officially, but that it appeared the old man had fallen over his stepladder and hit his head twice, once on the pantry shelves and once on the stove corner. The blows, or perhaps even just one, had killed him instantly.
Vic looked down at his uncle. He knew that Uncle Mark had never been truly happy. He had always regretted not exploring who he was. But even so, Vic was happy to see that his uncle's face didn't look pained. In fact, the old man was smiling. Vic hoped this was because death had come for him in the shape of a good looking man.
Wouldn't his uncle have loved that.
