Perfectly Matched

By Bud Pharo

Whenever she was well enough, I would wheel Anna to the pond behind the hospital to marvel at a pair of mute swans. Even on her most trying days, their graceful, aquatic ballet lifted her spirits and calmed her anxiety in ways the post-treatment and rehabilitation regimen had not.

She whispered, “Ah, look at them, Rob; they’re just like us, a perfect match.” Though I could see the scar tracks running through her hair—now just fuzz—when I looked into her bright blue eyes, she smiled, and I thought how lucky I was to have met this beautiful, spirited woman.

The summer I turned fifteen, her family moved in just down the street. At first, I’d only seen her walking past our house, but even in those brief moments, she held me spellbound. She was striking, but it wasn’t so much her physical appearance that captivated me as it was her quirky style and self-confidence. Vintage tortoiseshell glasses gave her an air of sophistication that belied the carefree look of fatigue pants, a Suzi Quatro tee, and a paisley newsboy cap from which a blond braid cascaded down the front of one shoulder. She defined her style as “bookish-punk.” Unlike most teens, she wasn’t trying to fit in with the “cool kids” and was quite comfortable being thought of as different.

She walked with her head up, Walkman headphones off, and a smile on her face, eager to engage with those she met along the way. She would often visit our widowed neighbor, who described Anna as a “lovely young lady” and, despite being only fifteen years old, she was an “old soul, wise beyond her years.”

Wow, I thought, she was fifteen, like me—maybe that could be a starting point for me to introduce myself.

I shared my feelings with my grandfather, who was in a nursing home recuperating from a stroke. He always provided sound guidance, and as a retired English teacher, he would always find an analogous situation in literature.

“Rob, did I ever tell you the story of Dante and Beatrice?”

“I don’t think so.” Watching his face light up as he entered storytelling mode helped me ignore the facility’s antiseptic odor.

“It’s about love at first sight.”

Now he had my attention. I slid the chair closer and leaned in.

Grandfather recounted how Dante fell in love with Beatrice the first time he saw her and, despite meeting only on one other occasion, maintained a profound, unrequited love for her his entire life. His love of Beatrice inspired many of his most famous works, including The Divine Comedy.

But at fifteen years old, the thought of a lifetime spent harboring unrequited love for someone I had never even spoken to didn’t seem appealing. I was torn because love at first sight seemed so cliché—like part of a mediocre coming-of-age movie—yet, in my heart, for her, I knew it to be true.

Like most of my grandfather’s stories, this one also had a moral. “Rob, don’t become a modern-day Dante.” His eyes twinkled as he continued dispensing his loving advice. “It might just be a teenage crush, or perhaps it’s destiny; the only way to find out is to meet her.”

Buoyed by his advice, I was determined to meet her by summer’s end, but I never found the nerve. That changed when school began, as our bus driver assigned our seats together—mine right next to hers—thus, doing what I could not, enabling me to finally meet my Beatrice.

We rode in polite silence for a few weeks, neither mustering enough courage to start a conversation. One day, sensing something was wrong, she asked, “Are you okay?”

I let out an audible sigh. “No, my grandfather passed away over the weekend,” I said, my voice cracking.

She took my hand. “I’m so sorry. I’d heard he was a wonderful man; would you tell me about him?” Her gentle touch sent a surge of electricity coursing through my body. Had I been standing, I’m certain I would have fallen.

Overcome with a mix of conflicting emotions, tears welled in my eyes. “He... was an amazing storyteller.” My voice cracked again as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. Instead of being embarrassed by the weeping young man beside her, she dried my tears with her sleeve and held my hand as I regained my composure. We talked the entire way to school and every day since.

Our friendship—initially built on trust—eventually blossomed into love. Grandfather, as usual, had been right; she was my destiny, and like Dante, I would love her forever.

Just before our 10th anniversary, Anna began experiencing severe headaches and uncontrolled limb movements. An MRI revealed multiple brain tumors. For two years, she fought courageously, but the surgeries, rounds of radiation, and chemotherapy proved ineffective while exacting a heavy toll. The woman I loved was disappearing before my eyes, and I was helpless to do anything about it.

While I sat next to her hospital bed, she asked a distressing question. “Rob, did you know Beatrice was only twenty-four years old when she died?”

I fluffed her pillow, hoping to avoid where this was going. “Yes, I remember reading that her death devastated Dante.” Then, I saw the hospice information on the bedside table. “Who gave you that?” I pointed at the folder with growing unease.

“The nurse got it for me from the hospice office,” she said, her eyes downcast.

“But what about the new trials the oncologist mentioned? I think she’s at the nurse’s station; I’ll try to catch her before she leaves.” As I rose and started toward the door, she motioned for me to sit. Stunned, I slumped into the chair next to the bed.

She gave a weak smile. “Rob, there’s no need; I asked the nurse to set up a counseling session with the hospice coordinator.”

“Anna, please don’t... please,” I begged in a quavering voice.

She squeezed my hand. “We both know that I’m dying. But I want to die in a dignified manner, not on an operating table. I can’t do this anymore—it’s my time, and I need you there, holding my hand as I take my last breath.”

In my heart, I knew she was right. As my tears flowed, I kissed her hand and held it to my cheek. And just as she did long ago on the bus, she dried my tears and tried to ease my pain.

Today, while visiting our “friends,” as she referred to the swans, she said, “You see, they really are like us—in love and perfectly matched for life.”

Her wistful comment brought gentle smiles and more tears, for we both understood this chapter of our love story was ending. We spent the next blissful hour holding hands, marveling at the swans, and wishing our story could have one more tomorrow.

After Anna’s funeral, I returned to the pond to tell our “friends” that, sadly, we would not be coming back.

Now, just a solitary swan swam alone.

🩷🩷🩷

Bud Pharo is a disabled veteran who writes short stories and flash fiction. He typically writes humorous sci-fi and fantasy pieces because he thinks our world could use more levity; however, he will, on occasion, write more serious pieces, such as this one. His work has been featured in a number of literary journals and magazines, both online and in print.