rewind Part 2 — SteemCN

You can't turn back the clock. But you can wind it up again.
Bonnie Prudden

I worked in a secret research project at the Howard Hughes Medical Institute, answerable only to Hughes himself. The project had one stated goal—to utilize the science of microbiology to stop or reverse the aging process.

I was the first test subject and went from being a sixty-year old man with mild hypertension and arthritis to having the body and appearance of a thirty-five old.

But in 1966, Hughes succumbed to severe obsessive-compulsive symptoms, and the program terminated. I took all my research data and quietly departed.

Now, I'm here in Florida, under an assumed identity pursuing the lifestyle of a mid-thirties beach bum.

My Anna Maria Island cottage works wonders for restoring my hopeful outlook, as do the white sandy beaches and sea oats, and the vast expanse of sky.

I feel reborn here and want to lose myself in long walks in the sand and the ebb and flow of tides.

But then I see her. She’s a loner like me, sitting on a sand dune at dusk with a glass of wine, and staring out to sea.

The gusts of Gulf air comb her long hair. She closes her eyes and lets the wind wantonly flutter and play with her blouse, and wrap its arms about her, claiming her for itself.

I go back to my cottage and dream of her, while lying in the dark, watching the lone wolf Moon circle the chamber alone.

My memories are those of a centenarian, but my heart and body are those of a young man.

And, the possibility of her enthrals me.

And then it happens quite by accident.

She lives two cottages down and that same wind that took liberties with her the day before, steals her laundry from the line and drops it off in my yard.

I’m coming out of the shed where the surfboards, umbrellas and water toys are stored and she’s bending gathering silky unmentionables and shaking off sand.

“Do the laws of trespass still apply in Florida?” I smile.

She straightens up, as the wind lifts her tresses and they spray behind her like spume off a wave. She's squinting at me in the noonday sun, sizing me up.

“Trespass laws are trumped by panty thefts,” she grins.

“Then, the wind is my friend," I parry.

I’m Edward Converse,” I say extending my hand.

“Kate Willett,” she says, shaking hands while trying to wipe stray strands from her lips.

She is incredibly beautiful.

The wind buffets us, thundering in our ears and drowning out conversation.

I cup my hand to shout in her ear, “Would you like to come inside for tea?”

She shakes her head and my hopes sink.

She leans in close and I inhale the scent of sunshine lotion, “I prefer wine.”

She’s a writer—a poetess. She owns the cottage and stays here six months out of the year. The rest of the time she spends in New York—where it's less solitary and less friendless.

“I need to get away and be by the sea. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a misanthrope—I’m more Anne Lindbergh or May Sarton, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” I smile. “I love the Gift of the Sea, and The Rewards of a Solitary Life is one of my favourite Sarton essays.”

Her face lights up. “Oh, so you do know what I’m talking about!”

There's a profound moan inside me as some deep and remote chambers of my being are calling out to be filled.

She senses an affinity too.

We sit and talk the long afternoon and when night falls, we take our wine outside and fall asleep in each others’ arms under wind-blown stars.

I tell her the secret of my life.

“You can’t keep running Edward, like a gypsy roaming from place to place.”

I nod. “I’m tired. It’s not what I envisioned. Everyone I once knew is dead. Immortality is so overrated.”

She frowns. “What will happen if you discontinue the therapy?”

“Well, I’m the guinea pig, but based on lab results with mice, I’ll just revert to the normal aging process. In twenty-five years I'll be back to where I began.”

“How would that make you feel?”

I shrug, “Normal—mortal, I guess. Lately, I’ve been restive—discontent. I’m at a standstill in my life. Face it—a feast isn’t a feast if you’re the only one eating.”

“Can you bear growing old with me?”

I wrap my arms around her, owning her like the wind.

“I couldn’t bear living life without you—a lifetime with you is more than an eternity alone.”

We lie out on the sand that night under washed-up stars and fall asleep to the rush of wind and the thunder of the surf.

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