My good woman has been. And
gone. Really gone.
I always know that when it
happens it will be like a band-aid coming off.
So the world goes quiet; my
heart and mind are empty. I pace the house, nowhere to go. I have nothing to
say and no one to say it to. There will be no lingering friendship; she’s not
like that.
She explained it all, the
gradual disappearance of us since I came back to Melbourne, the reality sinking
in and the glorious fantasy seeping away. I see it but I don’t; I feel it but I
don’t.
Her bike accident seals it. She
has tried to enter my world but can’t. I have wanted to enter her world but
haven’t really tried. It’s nobody’s fault, but I can’t help but think I am to
blame.
I get her keys from my car,
hand them to her at the top of the drive. We hug, we separate, she drives away
into the night. Tomorrow when I am at work she will bring back the mountain
bike I lent her kids, pop my keys in the key bowl.
I can’t believe I won’t sit in
her kitchen again, talk and laugh together. I can’t believe I won’t feel that
familiar body against me. I can’t believe anything at all just now. But I must.
The silence roars in my head.
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