I knew he’d be this way but I figured it would last six moths, a year tops, but not Tim.

The wedding was forced home by the pressures of her sisters and a Causobon level mistake, leaving a stunned crowd in disbelief. They all knew it was wrong, at least that’s how Tim saw the fiasco.

I wasn’t there. All I had was a second-hand report to go on. But it sounded bad.

A box contains our reality, a window display.

Will I get a movie deal for spilling the whole tale? What will Marylou say when I do come out and spill the whole sordid mess and her fault? Not so romantic now, afraid not, not one bit.

But what role did she play, really? She inspired the beginning, the letter no one has found, played a silent audience to his ramblings and musings. She spurned his advances, not once but twice. Once out of thoughtless disregard for his feelings and again out of pure spite and petulance. No one quite knew how to take all of this madness because they only saw the after, not before.

It was, in ways, the most beautiful romantic rendezvous ever and he, in the throes of victory, perished from the top of his rocky perch, he flung.

She began the interview furiously, how dare you  do this but soon she saw the love within him, saw the beauty of depth, that had caught everyone’s imagination, saw and succumbed. They embraced, they kissed, the world wowed. Then he ran way and came to speak with me.

“I met with her,” he said, stating the obvious. “It had been so long, you know, since the wedding. She’s not who I thought she was, not at all.”

“Dude, you barely knew her, a few. months was all.”

“It seemed like years. It has been so many years.”

“For you, it has been ongoing. Not for her.”

“She looked good, better than ever, I could say.”

“I saw her, from a distance, on television.”

“What did you think, when you saw her?”

“She aged; we all have but she looks better than both of us combined. She always did.”

“She’s prettier than I remember. It suits her.”

“Yeah, she’s all right.” I found it strange that he turned to me for an opinion on her looks. We’d never discussed anything like that before.

“I just don’t know,” he said, more than once.

“She wasn’t what I expected,” he repeated a few times.

A black heart set in silver, studded, sending a subtle message to those who understand. Darkness reflected in a teasing taunting. There’s just too much to say, too many ideas that won’t let go, so many paths untrodden. Feverishly opening our minds and hearts to the destructive pain of ceaseless strife, working in silence, knowing I am not heard. Frustrated impatience tries to scream weakly what have I heard while waiting wrings frightened by the stars, unleashed terrors, a long night spent lying helpless in the dark.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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