:a tired groan: Ah… it happened suddenly but not unexpectedly and now I’m sprawled here… I’m tired. I’ve felt something being wrong for a while now.

Oh, wow, it’s already dark out. Winter came quicker this year, somehow. The snow has already covered everything. Some would say ‘shrouded’ but I’m feeling simplistic tonight. I don’t want to overly complicate things.

Hmmm… The snow is starting again. There is no escaping it, but I don’t really care. I’m almost finished.

It’s very quiet. I like it. Ooooh, it feels so nice inhaling all this glacial air. … Glacial. Hah, and I though I wouldn’t be dramatic today. Hahaha, silly me. Of course I would fail. Hmmm, almost home now, just through the park.

How long have I been like this? Days, now. Maybe more. But at least I’m being noticed.

Wh… What’s that? … What is that? Can't see properly… Oh my god, it’s a monster. All twisted and black crouching in the snow. Oh my God, how did it get there? How am I going to get home? It’s right in my path!

Ah… she has caught sight of me as well. She’s afraid, I can tell. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you. I’m not a threat. I wish all of them took notice of me before I seemed like one. Before I resembled something sinister.

I can’t move. My feet won’t budge. It’s enormous and sinewy and has all those twisted limbs. Oh God, I’m so afraid… Somebody, help me.

She is positively petrified. I feel for her. But like all the others her eyes will adjust to the dark and she, too, will find her fear unfounded.

It’s not even moving. Maybe it’s dead?

:another tired groan: Ahhh… Almost done…

I want to see what it is, if it moves I’ll run as fast as my short feet can carry me.

That’s it, sweetheart. Conquer your fears. Come a little closer. I don’t bite.

Oh. … Oh, no.

Ah, yes. The realization sets in.

It’s a tree. Oh, Mr. Tree, what happened to you? Why are you on the ground in the snow? I feel like a proper fool, thinking a monster from fables and fairy-tales would suddenly appear in a park near my flat. But this tree… The base of the trunk gave in, it broke.

This young human is braver than the rest. She’s actually touching my decaying body. I can barely feel the sensation, still it is unmistakable. Hm, what’s this? She looks so...forlorn. Is that a tear? For me?

I’m sorry, Mr. Tree.

Thank you for morning my sudden and now inevitable passing. Nobody else did. Though many noticed me, you saw me.

:sobs: I wish you had more time. Goodbye, for now.

Her footsteps are getting fainter… :groans: I’m so tired.

:silence:

She was sitting on a hard wooden park bench. Even though autumn had already commenced, all the leaves had yet to start turning yellow. She got up for, to her, an unknown reason and began walking without a particular destination in mind, simply...walking.

Her head bowed, looking at her boots, hands in her jacket pockets, she walked on and on her thoughts racing, playing tag with one another, until...bump...she ran into someone and stumbled to the unyielding concrete pavement. Looking up her breath hitched for there he was, standing tall, handsome as sin, with impossibly velvety eyes. Taken aback by what had occurred, he just stood there looking at her and then blinking himself to the present the shock gave way to slight panic and he scrambled to help her up.

“Shoot! I’m so sorry! I was looking at my bloody mobile and of course wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you all right?” he asked gently.
“...Um...yeah...ah, yes, yes, I think so.” she replied clumsily.
“I truly am sorry.” he continued with concern.
“Yeah, no, no worries. I’m fine, really.” she insisted, finding her voice again.
“Hey, you’re that waitress from that new coffee place downtown, right?”
“If you’re thinking of Dhalia, then yes, I am.”
“Yeah! That’s the name, Dhalia. Such a great name, my compliments to the owner.”
“I’ll be sure to let her know.”
“Oh? We have such a good relationship with the boss already, eh?” he asked with a smirk that tugged the left side of his mouth more than his right.
“I sure as hell should be, she’s my auntie.”
“Niiice, getting the gig at the aunt’s place, staying connected, no sweat, easy game, easy life.” he tried to be funny and tease, but she wouldn’t have it, and with her smile fading she replied almost imperceptibly quieter with:
“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

Now it was his time to release the smile off his face.
“Sorry… That was uncalled for. It’s your business and I had no right sticking my big fat nose into it.”
“I don’t make any money.” she started after catching the genuineness in the look he gave her. “I work there to help my auntie out until the business takes off. And I only work the weekends, I do have a life and responsibilities.” Why was she explaining herself to him?

He could feel the shame creeping along his entire face and spreading to his neck and torso. He contemplated leaving to save face, but decided against it and figured he should man up and apologize.
“Well, then, now I feel incredibly dumb.”
“That’s ok, no way of knowing.” Why was she so easy to forgive him?

Silence ensued, not entirely unpleasant, but not overly comfortable either. They stood there silent and almost frozen, like two cats deciding if they should go their separate way, or maybe sniff each other and get acquainted a little bit more, and then she asked:
“And where were you going?”
“Me? Nowhere in particular. Just taking a walk. You?”
“Same… Do you want to...maybe walk together?”
“Sure thing.” he finished with a smile that she was sure was the sole reason why the polar ice caps were melting. And so they walked on, talking about nothing and everything; she remembered seeing him at the coffee shop from time to time, but failed to mention that she always thought him kind of cute...ok, a lot more than kind of cute, but she would sooner die than admit that.

The night came and while she was in the middle of explaining her frustration with one of her university professor’s manner of speaking to the students, he stopped abruptly and took her by the hand. Turning around she found his velvety gaze. Being a real giant compared to her tiny frame, he bent down and oh so lightly touched her lips with his and gave her the gentlest of kisses which so viciously tumbled her stomach and cut her at the knees. She opened her eyes and saw a beige ceiling. Turning her head to the right she saw the sun’s golden rays spilling into her room.

“Crap… It was a dream.” But such a dreamy dream it was. Offering her back to the liquid gold that assaulted her little four walls, she shut her eyes tightly hoping that she will go back to sleep, but it would not be. After she had hit her snooze button for the fifth time, she gave up and got up. Going through her morning routine of making coffee, reading her emails and skimming through the various social media notifications, she put on her jacket and her favourite pair of low heel ankle booties, and started off for work.

She though about the upcoming exams and found joy in that being her last exam period, ever. Almost done, just a few exams more to go and she would become a dentist. Her head bowed, looking at her boots, hands in her jacket pockets, she walked on and on her thoughts racing, playing tag with one another, until...bump...she ran into someone and stumbled to the unyielding concrete pavement. Looking up her breath hitched for there he was, standing tall, handsome as sin, with impossibly velvety eyes. Taken aback by what had occurred, he just stood there looking at her and then blinking himself to the present the shock gave way to slight panic and he scrambled to help her up. He took a breath to probably apologize, but she quickly yet demurely placed the tips of her fingers on his lips halting him, and whispered instead:
“Pinch me.”
“What for?” he asked bewildered.
“So that I would be sure that I’m not dreaming.” she answered without hesitation.

He looked at her as if she had just sprung up a third eye on her forehead, but pinch away he did. It hurt. With blissfulness playing around her mouth, she gave him a kiss, and not just a peck on the lips, a full-blown passionate french kiss. His sharp intake of air hinted at how absolutely flabbergasted he was, but it didn’t matter.

“What... Why... What was that?” he asked after the slightest of pauses, which was necessary for his brain to compute what had happened and then start functioning again, sort of.

“Just returning a favour.” she offered with an unapologetic shrug of her right shoulder and then walked past him, continuing to her destination.

For a long time he looked after her with a smirk that tugged the left side of his mouth more than his right.

He's watching me. No, not watching, observing. No, not even that, that would entail some sort of intellectual process happening behind those hazel eyes of his. He's...simply staring at me. And it makes me uncomfortable. But I smile and I participate in the conversation because my friend really likes his pal.

She made me go out tonight even though I wasn’t feeling like it, but I still put on a nice olive green dress paired up with my black knee high boots and came out because she truly hopes for a relationship with this guy. I only came out because she promised me this was NOT a double date type of situation. I hate those, they always turn out messy in the end.

So, that dude’s friend is still staring at me, and I don’t know what to think of it. I know that I don’t have anything smudged on my face, I didn’t bother with makeup, I never do, I am positive that I didn’t say anything worthy of such attention, and I am pretty sure I am not that lovely to look at. On top of it all, this look on his face doesn’t scream ‘I am in love with you because your body is the bomb and your face is exquisite! You are a scrumptious delectable treat and I’m imagining what you would taste like.’, and that is precisely what makes me uncomfortable. It is more along the lines of… ‘Duuuuuuuuh.’… or something similar.

I am trying to tell one of my stories, making it a bit funnier than it is by using my usual comedy routine manner of speaking and adding commentary where appropriate, but never lying, for lying is for the weaklings who can’t use their wit and demeanour to enhance others’ experience by speaking in a certain way, but rather have a need to waste their imagination embellishing their stories so much that it is quite possible they never happened to them in the first place. But, coming back to the here and now, I’m trying to entertain them with truth as much as possible, and my observer has yet to say anything and change his vacuous expression, and it’s too much for me, I can’t take it anymore!

“Is there a problem?” I ask calmly but exuding firmness and a tad bit of annoyance, interrupting myself and at the same time turning to him, looking him straight in the eyes.

“What d’you mean?” he asks finally replacing that almost vacant look with one of surprise.

“Well, you’ve been staring at me for the last half an hour not saying anything and not changing your expression of...I can’t quite gauge what, and I’m just wondering what could possibly be that fascinating on my face.” I resume immediately since I’ve been thinking about asking this question for the last 27 minutes.

“Um… You caught that, huh?” he asks unwittingly while scratching the back of his head absentmindedly (like there could be any other way for him to do anything aside from without a brain), continuing after a slight pause. “I thought you’d be way different. I’d a different opinion of you, is all.” he finishes with an unapologetic shrug and a smug smirk on his face, and I don’t know which of the two makes my blood boil more, his “explanation” paired with the appalling grammar or the utter callousness of his demeanour, but I go into my ‘deadly-calm-angry mode’ which consists of coldness materializing in my look and my whole body getting rigid with the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my voice going even softer and all traces of a smile leaving my lips. So I lean on the table with my elbows, crossing my left hand over the right and moving them underneath my chin to support it, now resting on them; and I ask looking straight in his eyes:

“And how could you form an opinion of me before even speaking to me? I don’t remember us meeting prior to tonight.”

His brashness doesn’t disappear, but is somewhat shaken, which he tries to swiftly cover with:

“Well, I know your group, Mary, Nancy, Alexander, Sergio, so I figured you’d be like ‘em, birds of a feather and all that shit. So when you turned out all sweet, funny and...honest I couldn’t believe my ears.” he ends with that same smug smirk not leaving his face.

‘He couldn’t believe his ears’… Wow, such a valid reason for creeping me out.

Anyhow, since his answer isn’t to my liking (even though there is an offhand compliment embedded in the spew which has just come out of his mouth, but I am neither that cheap, not that superficial), I decide not to back down, it is not in my nature to do so – ever. This calls for a retaliation.

“And what gives you the right to form an opinion of me, or anyone for that matter, based solely on who I spend a fragment of my time with?” I’ve made my point and this stumps him, because my question has wiped that smugness off his face – finally, which gives me immense satisfaction that I choose not to show, there’s no point in gloating, that is for petty people.

I can see him racking his brain (the two brain cells that he has in that dull skull of his (I know I’m being cruel, sue me)), trying to find a suitable answer, but there is nothing he could say to wash away the redness which has started creeping along his face some time ago and has now reached the very tips of his ears. Shame is a good colour on him.

“Well, then, I’m aware that there is no answer to my question, that is why I’ve asked it, but not to worry, let this be a teaching moment for you. I’m not going to use that god-awful analogy and place myself as a proverbial book judged by its covers, since this is not completely applicable here, but do remember this moment each time you pass your judgement even before you’ve actually met the person.”

My friend is pale, the guy she likes is very quiet, and my observer’s ears are redder than ever. This won’t do, try to calm the situation.

I release the freezing look from my eyes, softening up my expression and I place my arms on the table, folding them one over the other so that they sit on its edge following it, which I know makes me look more approachable, and finish with:

“I know you meant no harm, so no harm done.” smiling slightly I continue, “Let’s forget that you had a label for me before you’ve even spoken one word to me, and I will rip out the one I formed during this conversation. What do you say we all start fresh?” I ask with serenity and literally no ill will.

Crickets... Great...

Taking the glass cradling my Mojito and lifting it up I offer:

“To clean slates, second chances and torn off labels?”

And eventually my observer returns a smile to his face, lifts up his pint of beer and cheers with me, all the while looking sheepish, and I’ll gladly take it, because, after all, this night is not about the two of us, but about our friends who resumed flirting happily the very moment our glasses touched.

I am not like Petrarca’s lady with silky fair hair and even fairer skin, whose cheeks outshine the most beautiful rose, with blue eyes and a walk so light she barely touches the ground, neither am I like Shakespeare’s lover with wires for hair, a dirty complexion, smelling foul, making earth tremble under my feet.

I am my own and, more than that, I am his. The one’s who still tells me each and every day that he loves me and how beautiful, cute, sexy and adorable I am. He’s been wearing those infamous rose-coloured glasses for more than ten years now and I pray to God he never takes them off, just as I do and always will refuse to take off mine.

He will forever be my hero, my knight, my barbarian and my king, and I hope to perpetually remain his beloved, his queen, his dame and his enchantress.

They ran into each other and were both saddened and glad at the same time.

After exchanging the obligatory ‘Hello.’, ‘How are you?’, ‘Nice to see you.’, ‘What’s new with you?’, they fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence.

“Do you think it was a mistake?” He asked referring to them breaking up.

“No.” She answered referring to them having their brief affair in the first place.

The wind was warm and gentle on my face as I stood and watched the waves crash against the shore, each one a drowning man wishing to escape, yet perpetually being pulled back into the vastness of the deep blue by the unseen talons of the water pull. The setting sun was spilling liquid gold all the way to the horizon, the shimmers glinting on the rippling surface. A strand of my overgrown pesky hair tickled my cheek. I really should've cut it before I came here… And, how did I come to be here? Why was I here?

Looking down at my dominant hand I saw that I was clutching a piece of yellowed parchment paper all scrunched up. I tried to unfold it and read what it said, but at the first hint of the elegant cursive letters a gust of wind assaulted my side and the little rumpled scrap simply flew away leaving me standing there, unmoving. I really should’ve held onto it a bit firmer. I lost it. Gone forever…

“…Joshua…” … “…Hey…Joshua…” a faint familiar female voice reached my ear strenuously, in spite of the now fierce, yet warm wind, and I turned around expecting to see my beautiful new bride, but got an eyeful of my aforementioned overgrown, sand-filled hair instead.

“…Joshua…I’m going now…” the disembodied voice whispered riding the wind, and my heart gave a start, anxiety creeping all around me, and not the good kind. Swatting away my unruly hair I finally managed to glance at her soft, round, dainty shoulders and her long, luscious, wavy, ginger hair floating on the water, almost levitating, as she slowly disappeared under the transparent barrier of the sea. I waited for her to resurface to no avail. The anxiety was now transformed into a full blown panic attack, and I knew there was no point in panicking, but old habits die hard, I guess. I couldn’t lose her, too.

I charged at the sea, a knight in well worn, dingy armor trying to save his drowning damsel, but as soon as my feet clashed with the sea foam angrily sweeping on the shore there was nothing but the darkness… I rolled over in the middle of the night and saw the outline of her delicate form shone upon by the full moon giving my darling wife a gossamer-like veil of moonlight glow. She lay on her side facing away from me, her torso slowly expanding and constricting. I reached over and placed my hand gently right in-between her shoulder blades and gave her back a single, deliberate, yet delicate stroke. She acknowledged my touch with a sleepy, murmured endearment, and I returned to my slumber loving her even more.

So, here I am again. Sitting in this chair, the same seat at the kitchen table I always occupy. I hate this chair and I hate this table and more than anything I hate the man standing across from this chair. The man I once upon a time adored. The man that was my all. The man with whom I have made this house a home. The man who was my man long ago.

We’ve been drifting apart for so long now… I honestly cannot remember the last time I looked at him and felt something other than detachment, or, more recently, disgust. I thank dear God every day for giving me common sense not to procreate with this leech. The would-be children would’ve been destroyed by the toxicity brewing to overspill between us… I wouldn’t wish that on anybody…

Anyhow, he just stands there, looking at me but in actuality looking through me, thinking of who knows what and who knows who… if at all. An image of a dark blank space and an occasional tumbleweed passing across the accumulated dust springs into my mind and I come close to smirking, but it’s easily overpowered by other images… more recent memories.

He screwed up and I retaliated, so here we are, engaged in a perpetual staring contest with no winners and no players. We don’t talk anymore. We go through motions. I feed us, he takes out the trash, I do the laundry, he vacuums on occasion, rarely. We eat at different times of day, whether intentionally or not, I have no clue. I’m not so unhappy nowadays because I don’t think I care that much anymore, even though I am still very angry. But I stay. And for what reason? Beats me. Or maybe I do know why. The house is in our names. This house that holds memories. Memories from our wedding night, from the first night we spent in that bedroom down the hall to the right… Memories from a faraway time when we were younger, bight-eyed and in love. In love with each other and in love with love. When he would bring me breakfast in bed and I would do a little striptease show for him at night. When he would make love to me all night long and then we would cuddle for hours afterwards. Thinking about this unlocks a door to something almost forgotten. And the door cracks open just a smidgeon. There is warmth followed by hope and I open my mouth to say something nice or maybe encouraging, but in a split second those feelings get overrun by the last eleven months of us eating alone, all those years of him whoring around, and my singular affair that I’ve had in response to the multitude of his betrayals; so what comes out of my mouth is a relieved closure epitomized in a single sentence:

“I want a divorce.”

His absentminded gaze focuses on me and I see something shifting behind that previously vacant stare. To my astonishment I recognize surprise, hurt and even jealousy in the trembling of his fingers and the furrowing or his brow.

“Why?” he asks on a whisper. “So that you can go and fuck Brian?” he pushes through clenched teeth with more force.

I can’t believe the audacity of him! How dare he be jealous!? He who’s been fucking every groupie he could sink his dick into after every single one of his gigs. It’s kind of my fault, really, I should’ve had the brain capacity of reasoning why it would be a bad idea to marry a musician, let alone a lead singer of a rock band. Every skank throwing herself at him just because he is “the man”, and that stupid grin on his face plainly showing that that’s boosting his ego. My inner turmoil is repressed by my desire to remain calm and composed, so I open my mouth again just to repeat:

“I want a divorce.”

It does something to him and he starts pacing up and down the length of the kitchen in a jittery manner.

“No… No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! NO!” he yells on a crescendo slamming his fist on the solid oak dining table in front of me. Shock fills me on the inside, but I forbid myself to show it. I’ve decided and there is nothing he can do to stop me. So, once again, I say those four little words in the exact same way I’ve done it the previous two times. Calmly, without rushing, exuding composure.

“I want a divorce.”

His ears are red, his fists clenched on either side of his body and out of the blue he lunges at me, grabs me by my shoulders, pushes me out of my seat toppling the chair in the process, pins me to the kitchen wall that’s behind me and shouts:

“Is that all you can do?! All you will say!?! Like a parrot!?! ... Talk to me!” Terror grips my muscles, but I will them to relax and again seemingly effortlessly utter:

“I want a divorce.”

His chest is expanding and constricting rapidly pushed by the ragged intake of air, his eyes willing me to say something else but I stand my ground and stare right back in a dispassionate manner. There’s another shift behind his furious gaze and he crushes my lips with an unwanted kiss. He moans spreading his disgusting saliva all over my unyielding mouth, fisting my hair with his right hand, grabbing the crevice between my behind and my upper thigh with his left, pushing his crotch into my lower stomach and pubic area, and I do nothing because his tantrum is childish and completely uncalled for. The man I once loved isn’t this man. Or maybe I’m not the same woman anymore. His advances subside and I see hope in his eyes when he finally opens them to gauge my reaction. This hope I don’t really take any perverse pleasure in crushing, but I’m aware that I have to because I feel no lust or love or even compassion for this man. A man I’ve been clothing, feeding and supporting for the last seven years. I’m void of any and all positive feelings for him, I have just plain old disgust and detachment towards him. So once again I repeat:

“I want a divorce.”

His hope disintegrates like a sheet of the cheapest toilet paper that’s been sitting in water for days, and he crumbles to his knees in front of me, desperately clutching the fabric of my skirt, hugging my hips, crying, his head bowed, and I feel something new – irritation. Irritation at his tears marking my tan skirt. This pathetic excuse for a human being hasn’t contributed to our household…well…come to think of it…ever. All he came back with was chlamydia. Bastard.

I step aside away from him, turn the chair that tumbled over back to the upright position, put it to its rightful place, sit back down and slowly focus my impassive stare towards him.

“We are getting a divorce, Samuel. I give you a day to pack your things and get out. We’re done. We’ve been done for quite some time now.”

He’s still on his knees and with me sitting down we’re at eye level and I can see his crocodile tears mixing with his snot and saliva, the droplets flying everywhere as he violently squalls, spewing garbage with each and every one of the words he utters. This just makes me realize how much I do not care for this person anymore. I watch him cry even harder and squeal loudly through his scrunched up face:

“You can’t do this to me! This is our house!!! You can pack and go live with Brian! You bitch!!!”

Although his unrighteous outburst angers me, which I show with just a slight frown and the addition of coolness in my eyes, I keep my composure. I know this side of me unsettles him and so I utilize it well.

“Samuel,” I start as if talking to a petulant child, “your music hasn’t paid for anything ever since we moved in here, even before the wedding, let alone after. I’ve paid for this house with my own money, therefore I will continue living here. With or without Brian is none of your business. I’ll repeat, pack your things and get out. I’m not giving you even a full day anymore just for calling me a bitch. You have two hours, should be plenty for your bag. Stay at one of your bandmates’ or groupies’. You’re not my problem anymore. Your tears are not for me but for the hot meals, the clean clothes and sheets, the warm bed and the roof over your head that I’ve been providing for free. I don’t love you and, don’t kid yourself, you’ve stopped loving me eons ago. So stop this sniveling charade and just go.”

My little monologue sobers him up, the waterworks stop to my utter relief. Incredulity sets in and he can’t help but weakly ask:

“Why?” And my answer will not satisfy him, ergo I take great pleasure in answering:

“Because I want a divorce.”