“You were trying to snatch the camera from my hand,” he chuckled. “I raised it high – above the air. God, I could have taken the shot of your determined face.”
The aggressive rush of the water remains. My feet are suddenly glued to the ceramic floor of our apartment. I am trying to dance away from the haze of this afternoon’s conversation. I shake my head – blocking the forming images in my head.
I drop the frying pan into the sink and it harshly clinks. I release a frustrated grunt – a catharsis from all the unspoken words; from all the regrets I could have avoided.
“Here I am!” The door closes.
I stiffen, but regain my composure through my acted beam. I turn and give my husband a warm embrace – or so at least. “How’s work?”
“Good, good, but never better than your dishes. What’s up?”
“Same old chicken. I bet your hungry.”
“Why, you’re not?” Humor coils around his voice. If you only know how hungry I am.
We sit and consume the food while they are still scalding. The luscious flavor emanating from the juices sends shocks into my veins. I want to gulp it – I want to devour it all – but I know I cannot. I have already lost my appetite.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You seem in another vision.” He offers a small grin.
“Do you remember…”
“You have to stop.” I unlatch my hand from his hold.
“Do you still remember the book I gave you?”
I averted my gaze and replied, “Yes. I still have it.”
A sad smile. “Have you read it?”
This time, I gazed into his caramel eyes. “I have never since you gave it to me. I swore that I will read it in my bedridden days.”
“You should now and see the petal; it is us.”
“It is nice seeing you again.” He moved to the door; I did not stop him.
When I got back to my unit, I went straight to my room and retrieved “In the Hardest Times” by an author I was not familiar with. I flipped through the pages until a single petal kissed the floor.
It was from a red rose.
It was still vibrant and in crimson shade – it was sensual and living.
It was still breathing.
“You look pale. Is it the food?” An abrupt message from my husband.
“No…No, I’m fine. I’m good. I just…I have to go to the bathroom.” As I move to the living room, my hand grazes our wedding photo frame and it lands with a loud crash on the floor. Pieces of shards escape and the photo is a torn, glossy paper.
“Honey, it’s okay, I got this…”
“No,” my voice hoarse as I stare into the chaos. “It’s not fine – I broke it. Oh my god, I broke it…”
My first sob rises.
WORD COUNT: 480
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.