His hand fondled her bottom... the first time he'd touched her all night. It squeezed one globe and then the other... a finger trailed along the crack.She felt something made of fabric skim her back, and he began to wrap it around her wrists, binding them together. Though soft, it was a rope, she decided. He tied it firmly without hurting her. Her wrists were captured. Her arms were no longer free."You may lower your arms in front of yourself now, if it would be more comfortable," he said, and she accepted the invitation gratefully. Then she watched a strip of black velvet descend before her face, and he pulled it snugly against her eyes. He tied it behind her head, checked to see that it was comfortably taut and said, "Now it's time for us to begin."A shiver of anticipation coursed through her body, and she tried to comprehend the idea that what she'd already done... the brazen display of her sexuality... was only a precursor of what he had planned.She felt his hands gently upon her. Keep control! You don’t want to be crying in the pictures! It just seems like everyone’s getting married today. Eyes to the ground just before my feet, I continued to encourage myself with each step. I had just begun to heed my own advice when an upright stone slab slid into view. My head popped up. Glancing about, I realised I had wandered to the edge of the cemetery adjacent the old chapel. I looked to the tombstone near my feet, echoing the engraving in my head. Mary Tuttle. 1858-1931. Beloved Wife and Mother. Gone but not forgotten. I tilted my head, mirroring the lean of the marker, wondering who might still remember Mary, now dead a year longer than she had lived. Within not quite a second, I realised the answer. I looked away, tears welling with the understanding that the same number of people would remember me in a century or so. ‘Why are you so sad?’ My eyes snapped open as I turned them to meet Oliver’s gaze, and his question. ‘What makes you think I’m sad?’ ‘This.’ His.
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