To possibly become a short story about betrayal.
You stare at me.
‘The window was left open.’
The room tilts slightly; you could almost miss it.
You wear a long coat and the green scarf that we bought when it rained.
We both open our mouths to speak, notice, and hold silence.
‘I was going to say you can take your coat off, it’s not too cold, really.’
‘You don’t want me here long.’
I pick up a newspaper from the table and move it to the chair. The pillow we bought in Peru.
‘I’ve just come to tell you the truth, from me, unadulterated.’
You take another step into the room, ‘It’s been going on for eight months. We met in March. I thought it would be nothing, a slip, a mistake to not be repeated. I tried to make it nothing. I did try that, for you. But it wasn’t and I can’t help that. We can’t help ourselves or where we love. It wasn’t about you, really, it happened quite simply, easily. You can have everything. You’ve always been good to me. Kind, too kind I think. I was never really your… well… can’t help ourselves.’
The truth from you is like a still butterfly from the beast.
I open the window, despite being cold.
‘Do you want to ask me anything because I don’t want you to feel you’ve been lied to.’
A child crosses the road down bellow, her father pulls her out of a cyclists’ path causing her to lose her balloon. It is in the shape of Micky Mouse.
I keep my fingers bent over the window, ‘What will you do with your things?’
‘My things?’ Your voice rings.
‘The things we got together, will you share them with him?’
‘I told you, you can have everything.’ And just like that the morning lurches from the night. The moon will never be the sun. ‘If you want, it’s what you want.’ The balloon sails as though it had never wanted to be anywhere but the sky. Ethereal. ‘If there’s nothing else to say.’
When I turn, you will be gone. Eleven years, but now.
The wind catches my collar.
Turn and you’ll be gone.
What if the earth couldn’t hold itself? Crumbled by its own magnitude.
I move the newspaper back to the table. Sit it next to your scarf. It had looked the colour of moss in the rain.