The man, he had a lover. He had had that same lover for as long as he could remember. His father before him had had a lover, and his father before him. So it seemed only natural that he, too, should have the same vice. They met when he was young, while his father was busy with his own dalliance. She was colourful, rich, vibrant. She bubbled, she frothed, yet she was cool and aloof. She would titillate him, even then, her worldly ways bred in to her from her own genetic base, so much more advanced than her years. A flirt here, a tickle there, a promise of what could be in store, the taste she left on his tongue embedded in his brain long before he was old enough to legally even sample what she had to offer.

When legal age came, he was already addicted to her. She calmed his rage. She bolstered his ego. She gave him confidence that he could be, could do, anything he set his mind to. In the early years she was his mentor, his counsel, his judge. With her by his side he always knew what was right, what was just, what was to be.

From time to time, he strayed. It was only natural; he justified, trying other offerings. For wasn’t he young, strong, virile? And other offerings, they were always trying to catch his eye, tempt him away from his one true love. He sampled many, as is the way of the naive. Some younger, some older. Some richer, some with body, some with nothing more to offer than a good time for a night. She always forgave. He always returned. Still they paraded in front of him. In bars, the light would bounce from their adornments. Their coverings, gaudy, bright and eye catching called his name. Sample me, they said. Let me show you what I can do. From time to time the temptation they offered was too much and he caved, spending far too much money on their charm and beguile. Some were dark, mysterious, exotic. Some were as white as he. Some had money behind their title, years of breeding and an aristocratic name. Inevitably though, she always took him back. Her calling for him was unconditional.

Later in years, supposedly mature and married with children, he could not, would not give her up. She never seemed to age, she never seemed to change. When he argued with his wife, she consoled him. When he could not handle his growing children, she comforted him. When he lashed out with words or fists, it was to her waiting charms he retreated, knowing that she was there, always there, no judgment, just pure devotion to his every need. She soothed, she calmed, she caressed.

Old age came. His children, grown and moved on, shook their heads and washed their hands of him. His wife of many years continued to wait, hoping in vain he would see that she was the one, she would triumph, she would outlive the other love and all would as it should be. The wife did, indeed, outlive the other love. But her time of shining never came. See, she also outlived the man, who died alongside that lover, so entwined that together, they were as one.

She finally took him, that lover. She became so much a part of him, that there was no division between the two. His brain became so confused he could not tell day from night, mother from daughter, son from father. His body, once strong, betrayed him. His heart, finally broken beyond repair, altered course and beat to its own newly created erratic rhythm. The liver, overloaded from love, stopped working. And the mind went insane as it died, screaming her name, silently…