Johnny Wraith Stories

He was 87. Not much remained for him. No assets. No children. He never kept a marriage and outlived all his friends. There was a long list of could-have-beens. Now he was dying in a hospital bed. His withered body ready to give in. Brown spots covered his bald head; his jowls drooped down his neck. He was all alone with a beeping monitor, his heart rate, and wires, a catheter. Regrets? Yes. There were plenty. But it wasn’t time to worry.

He closed his eyes, took his last breath, and remembered. The best day of his life. It was enough, all by itself.

It was morning. He was young, his skin tight, his body blessed with sunshine. He sat on a little balcony, perched on a cliff, overlooking the island caldera. A crescent filled with Mediterranean water, deep and blue. He sipped espresso from a small ceramic cup, while watching the white cruise ships below. No bigger than quarters.

She woke wearing only his t-shirt from the night before. She tiptoed to him and fell into his arms. Flowing black hair and lithe legs. They kissed between bites of croissant. They giggled with delight at each word, each gesture.

They hiked from morning to afternoon, from Fira to Oia, ascending the island until the Mediterranean stretched into the distance on all sides. It was the zenith of Santorini, and only beehives were there, buzzing. No one in sight. Rugged terrain, a winding path, bees, encircling sea. A gentle wind. Hot sunlight. They embraced. Fell to the ground and made love. Only the hum of buzzing bees, the sea breeze with light salt, mixed with the sounds of their moaning.

They held hands tightly the rest of the way to Oia. They passed little chapels, all alone on rocky slopes, overlooking the Mediterranean waters with white walls and blue domes. They stumbled upon donkeys draped in colorful blankets and wearing bells. The donkeys brayed. The bells clanged.

In Oia they discovered a small village draped in white stucco, blue rooftops, winding stone staircases leading straight into the sea. In a little café, while sipping wine, they watched the sun set into the deep, reaching Mediterranean. A panorama of blue, orange, red, and yellow pastel. Locals praised this sunset as the best in the world. The locals didn't lie.

When total night descended, they took a taxi back to Fira. They made love again and fell asleep, embracing tightly.

He rose the next morning to the reappearing sun he’d watched set the night before. He sipped espresso from a small, ceramic cup. It was dark and bitter. He watched the cruise ships sail into the caldera far below. No bigger than quarters. She appeared with naked feet and legs, in his t-shirt. She fell into his arms.

The monitor flat-lined.