Juliet's Last Lover

Short Story by Stu Ducklow

Juliet was getting old. Her skin had been replaced during her last physical so she looked shiny and new, but she was older than almost all of her lovers.

She had never been easy to love. She was uncompromising, demanding and skittish. Young people were afraid of her. Old friends appreciated her authenticity but they’d grown up in a different era, where truth was more important than ease of use. Most of them were too old to frolic with her but some still visited occasionally just to talk and maybe take a picture. They admired her elemental beauty.

Juliet knew her life would soon come to an end, probably because of an accident. She couldn’t warn anybody but she could feel a weakness in one of her joints. She had felt it give while she was with Steve, not one of her favourite lovers, though she admired his tenacity. He was rough with her but she knew he’d relax sooner or later and his touch would become sure and gentle. Juliet hoped she’d live long enough to experience that joy with one more pupil.

She’d helped thousands of young men and women in her long career. The women, it seemed were better. They were sensitive, like Juliet, and their movements were considered and thoughtful. The guys felt they had to prove something and Juliet would wind up bouncing around under their spastic clutching and grabbing. She hated that.

Sooner or later they all fell in love with her. They learned she could be quick and powerful, lively and energetic. They learned how to exercise control with gentleness and skill not brute force. Juliet didn’t know how other females felt but she yearned for the skilled, deft hands of an experienced lover, one who would appreciate her unique qualities and come back often.

Steve was no such partner. He’d kick her and grab her limbs and twist them. She could feel that he was nervous and afraid and she sympathized but she hated the pounding she took from him. He didn’t know what to look for. He wasn’t sensitive or caring. He’d never notice her aching joint.

It was Steve who had come to see her again this afternoon. She could feel his anxiety in the extra force he put into the joggling and prodding– part of his dreadful preliminaries. It put her in a bad mood. The weather didn’t help. A thunderstorm was brewing and the air was filled with static electricity. It made Juliet jumpy and even more skittish than usual. But she had to cooperate. She always did what her partners demanded whether it hurt or not.

Her aching joint burned under Steve’s rough handling. The thunderstorm erupted with hail and furious winds filling her world with an unearthly light. Steve’s fearful hands gripped like a vice. She bounced, and twisted and struggled in protest. If only he’d let go and let her guide him she could show him how their partnership was designed to work– the perfect joy of control and submission. But his fear made him even more powerful and he handled her with mighty heaves and jerks, back and forth, tearing and pushing. She moaned and held herself rigid, willing him to finish. And then suddenly it was over. She felt her ailing joint flutter and then give way. She was torn, broken, unable to perform.

It was the end for both of them. Juliet had always wanted her life to finish with a bang and it did, in one last glorious spin into the ground from 800 feet over the airport.

She was crushed under the impact, her classic monoque fuselage crumpled like a candy wrapper. Steve was dead inside. A colourful brigade of fire and emergency vehicles raced cheerfully to the scene and sprayed Juliet with flame retardants before the firemen hacked the flimsy doors away and confronted the bloody remains.

Then they swaggered around looking important in their day-glo fireproof jackets and waited for the ambulance to take the body away.

Bystanders gathered taking pictures with their cell phones. “What do I call that thing,” shouted one of them.

“A Canuck,” said another. “It’s called a Fleet 80 Canuck. We all trained on her — a real good plane to learn on. I’ll be she’s over 70. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

“What did you call her before? Juliet?”

“Yep, that’s her name. Juliet Delta Quebec– that’s radio talk for those letters on her tail. CF-JDQ. Hey, can you send me one of those pictures? She was a good friend.”

Stu Ducklow, a home-based design professional shaping small daily newspapers across the U.S. and Canada, brings a unique blend of creativity and technical prowess to our literary landscape. When not crafting layouts, Stu adds a melodic touch to the jazz scene, playing saxophone in intimate bands. His writing journey spans courses in Halifax and Toronto, reflecting a commitment to storytelling that infuses his contributions with a distinctive flair.