They had not spoken in two years, not in real life anyway. She spent months agonising about whether to see him again. Then months spent imagining this day, she had hoped to see him for longer. The meeting lasted 10 minutes.
He looked to have much to say, or did she wish it were so? Perhaps it was his stare. He sat calm and composed - seemingly not aware of the people around them. People generally seemed lost in their own little world.
"Would you like to sit down?" he at last said.
She shook her head. His appearance had changed much, but his voice still had that quality of making you feel wanted.
"Have you been doing well?". Another general query. For god's sake, I wish he'd ask me something real.
"Yes, I'm alright," she heard herself say. "A bit tired, but otherwise good." She had driven three hours straight. She felt like she had been driving all day. The sea air was doing her some good so far. She hoped he wouldn't be able to smell the alcohol on her breath.
A bird cried out, the pitch straining her ears. She winced slightly at its last shriek. He smiled. She wished she'd accepted his offer of a seat.
"I've missed you," he said. At last, something real. This was the first real thing she had heard him say in over two years. She nearly burst into tears. She nearly hit him.
But all she could do was say, "So have I."
"I was hoping we could meet up," he began again. "But I don't really know where I want to go from here."
I know, it's my fault. It's always been my fault, and I can't begin to say how sorry I am.
She said: "To be honest, I wasn't sure what today was going to be like. I'm still afraid of how this looks. I've not told my parents about this, of course."
"I understand."
"To be honest, I don't speak to my parents much."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He had maintained his voice thus far. She marvelled at his composure. Then again, that night two years ago as well, he had seemed composed, nay, resigned to his fate. Her own shrieks were entrenched in memory, not so much of his, if any.
They had left him for dead, on the steps leading up to the railway station. Did they intend for her to find him? Face down, and lying on his right cheek, he was conscious as she helped him to a sitting position. Unrecognisable, but that had much to do with the blood from his head wound. She cried for help. He told her not to worry. Then he passed out. The doctors had been a godsend.
"Your parents must be worried about you?" he continued.
"They always worry about me. Mostly about who I'm seen with." Now she could feel her strength returning. The large whisky she had drunk earlier in the morning had helped - not to mention the refill - but the anger at her own flesh and blood now brewing inside her was the real fuel.
"Then perhaps today was ill-advised."
"No!" she retorted. "I wanted this. I wanted today to happen. It was a choice between this, or another day without saying what I really wanted to say that night."
"Which was..."
"I'm sorry. I fucked up."
The words seemed to echo inside her own head. She felt relieved, almost happy, at having finally uttered them.
She felt him walking away. "It's okay," he said. After a pause he added: "I suppose I needed to hear an apology of some sort from someone. But really, I never held you responsible for anything. Apart from stealing my heart, of course! And in any case, I'm in a much happier place now. So all is forgiven."
I know. And I'm happy you're happy.
Slowly, she laid the flowers near his headstone. There was nothing left to do but walk away.
He looked to have much to say, or did she wish it were so? Perhaps it was his stare. He sat calm and composed - seemingly not aware of the people around them. People generally seemed lost in their own little world.
"Would you like to sit down?" he at last said.
She shook her head. His appearance had changed much, but his voice still had that quality of making you feel wanted.
"Have you been doing well?". Another general query. For god's sake, I wish he'd ask me something real.
"Yes, I'm alright," she heard herself say. "A bit tired, but otherwise good." She had driven three hours straight. She felt like she had been driving all day. The sea air was doing her some good so far. She hoped he wouldn't be able to smell the alcohol on her breath.
A bird cried out, the pitch straining her ears. She winced slightly at its last shriek. He smiled. She wished she'd accepted his offer of a seat.
"I've missed you," he said. At last, something real. This was the first real thing she had heard him say in over two years. She nearly burst into tears. She nearly hit him.
But all she could do was say, "So have I."
"I was hoping we could meet up," he began again. "But I don't really know where I want to go from here."
I know, it's my fault. It's always been my fault, and I can't begin to say how sorry I am.
She said: "To be honest, I wasn't sure what today was going to be like. I'm still afraid of how this looks. I've not told my parents about this, of course."
"I understand."
"To be honest, I don't speak to my parents much."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He had maintained his voice thus far. She marvelled at his composure. Then again, that night two years ago as well, he had seemed composed, nay, resigned to his fate. Her own shrieks were entrenched in memory, not so much of his, if any.
They had left him for dead, on the steps leading up to the railway station. Did they intend for her to find him? Face down, and lying on his right cheek, he was conscious as she helped him to a sitting position. Unrecognisable, but that had much to do with the blood from his head wound. She cried for help. He told her not to worry. Then he passed out. The doctors had been a godsend.
"Your parents must be worried about you?" he continued.
"They always worry about me. Mostly about who I'm seen with." Now she could feel her strength returning. The large whisky she had drunk earlier in the morning had helped - not to mention the refill - but the anger at her own flesh and blood now brewing inside her was the real fuel.
"Then perhaps today was ill-advised."
"No!" she retorted. "I wanted this. I wanted today to happen. It was a choice between this, or another day without saying what I really wanted to say that night."
"Which was..."
"I'm sorry. I fucked up."
The words seemed to echo inside her own head. She felt relieved, almost happy, at having finally uttered them.
She felt him walking away. "It's okay," he said. After a pause he added: "I suppose I needed to hear an apology of some sort from someone. But really, I never held you responsible for anything. Apart from stealing my heart, of course! And in any case, I'm in a much happier place now. So all is forgiven."
I know. And I'm happy you're happy.
Slowly, she laid the flowers near his headstone. There was nothing left to do but walk away.
