Read Until I Die for Free Online Page B

passage of hers and Philippe’s from the book The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy . She said it helped to keep them ‘in the day.’”
He cleared his voice and began reading.
“‘Time wastes too fast …. the days and hours of it … are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more—every thing presses on—whilst thou art twisting that lock,—see! it grows grey …’”
Vincent looked up and caught my eye and then, looking troubled, returned to the page and continued.
“‘And every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!’”
My heart lurched in my chest. Not just symbolically—it caused actual physical pain. The passage seemed to have been written for me and Vincent. My worst fear about our future had been spelled out in the poetic lines that he was reading like a dirge.
This could be us , I thought once again. Whatever happened, we seemed damned by fate. Even if Vincent suffered through the agony it would cause him to resist dying and grow old with me, someday he’d be like Geneviève, a beautiful teenager standing by his elderly lover’s grave.
And why am I even thinking about growing old with someone? my internal voice of reason protested indignantly, making me feel like a sappy idiot. I’m just a teenager! How do I even know what I will want five years from now, much less sixty? I couldn’t help it, though. The tragedy felt real and immediate, and I couldn’t throw it off with rational explanations.
Irrational and premature grief raked my heart, forcing stinging tears to my eyes. I had to get out of there. I had to escape from this crushing reminder of mortality’s final result. I backed slowly out of the assembly, hoping no one would notice my flight.
Once I was clear of the group, I strode quickly away, pausing briefly to look over my shoulder. No one had seen me leave. Everyone faced Vincent, who was now hidden by a sea of black suits. I myself was lost for a minute in a mob of passing tourists, holding up maps that pointed out the celebrity graves. “Edith Piaf, two aisles over and one up,” called a guide leading a group of American teenagers. Just a year ago, that could have been me , I thought, looking at a smiling, carefree girl my age. I let myself be swept along with them until I was a safe distance away from the funeral.
Not caring what direction I was heading, I plunged deeper into the acres of graves. A cold rain began to pelt down like frozen darts, stinging my skin, and I ducked into a little Gothic-style structure carved in stone.
The roof was supported only by pillars, giving me shelter from the rain, but leaving me exposed to the cold wind. I hunched down next to an aboveground tomb topped by two statues lying side by side, their hands pressed together in eternal prayer on their marble bed. After a moment of casting around in my memory, I remembered where I was—I had stopped here on the walking tour with my mother. It was the tomb of Abelard and Héloïse. How fitting , I thought, that on today, of all days, I end up at the grave site of France’s most famous tragic lovers .
At the base of the monument, I sat with my knees up pressed against me, pulling my coat around my legs to shield me from the elements. I felt more alone than I had in months. Drying my face with the edge of my sleeve, I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think things through in a rational manner.
I had to concentrate on the here and now. Why was I so afraid?
I picked up a shiny black stone from the base of the tomb and rolled it around in my palm until it was warm. Then I set it on the ground next to my foot to mark Point One of my List of Fears: Even if Vincent was able to resist dying, it would mean decades of emotional and physical pain for him. It was cruel and selfish of me to expect him to endure that, and all because of my own weakness.
I picked up another