Bouginvilleas

“There is fuck all out there”, you said, loud enough that I jumped at your tone and knew that finally there was some emotion, even anger was a start to some dialogue about what next. Except it was too late. Emotion and I had long cut ties. Anger, disappointment and sadness, made way for a sea of nothingness. I felt nothing. You launched into a monologue about loyalty and history and first loves and following sunsets and beaches.

I remember staring at the Bougainvilleas outside in our garden and thinking how beautifully they have meshed into each other. It took years for that to happen, years for them to branch out and reach each other, covering the wall for privacy. At least they made the effort, I thought. The ice maker of the fridge grunted in agreement to your list of reasons to stay (at any other time, it may have been some comic relief) and the wedding photo on the antique writing desk looked suddenly out of place. I always thought it should have been a colour photo, you insisted black and white was timeless. Like you thought we were.

Except we weren’t. And as the clock struck three, I thought now is as good a time as any.

“But what if there is,” I said.
And you paled and left, the Bouginvilleas framing our end.

Copyright HiraethPhoenix 2014

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