At the Lakeside
I hold your hand, here on the waterfront, but find no warmth or comfort.
The gulls swoop and squawk but the baguette we bought at the Boulangerie has either been consumed or is lost between the rocks at the side of the lake.
However much they insist, and that seems to be what they do best, mealtime is over.
So here I am, trapped in the awkward silence between us, waiting for some words to form from the pot-pourri of thoughts I’d been mulling over for too long.
I look at you for inspiration, some kind words to say perhaps, and you smile, as you always do.
I somehow can’t summon any sort of smile in return, even one of the fake smiles I’ve gotten used to giving of late.
Instead, I slowly extract my hand from yours.
Something in my expression betrays my intentions, and your smile transforms into a look of surprise.
I brush the crumbs from my coat and get to my feet.
A tear escapes and rolls effortlessly down your cheek and you open your mouth to speak but no words arrive.
I mutter, “I’m sorry” as I turn to leave.
I don’t look back.
Each Friday I’ve gotten into the habit of entering the Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner challenge but for some reason there hasn’t been a challenge these last two weeks. I hope all is ok Roger!
For a change then, this Friday, I’ve written a non challenge story.