It's summer again. The spring flowers have returned to the ground and will hide there until next year. I miss the drooping snowdrops and the small explosions of colour from the crocuses. The tiny specks of purple and yellow on the grass below my window have been trampled down from kids and bikes. The bright colours have been replaced with strange patches of bleached grass created from the speckles of light that the trees allow through. The sunsets are more and more beautiful everyday, not as good as the ones you get in late summer or even autumn with the lovely gradient of perfectly matching pinks, lilacs and oranges. But still good.
Last night, the streaks of cloudy vapour reminded me of the lines of the road on that highway in America, leading off to another mystery. You had those stupid sunglasses on and of course you weren't looking where you were going and nearly fell off a cliff. You acted like you had totally meant to do that and that you were just rescuing some poor nest that had fallen from a tree. There's a nest that was once filled with chick's, outside my window, that's been left abandoned. It's just a ball of twigs now - an empty home.
My flat feels barren, despite the purple couch that sits proudly against the far wall. The walls themselves are clad in grey, mourning the vibrancy of before. An odd assortment of furniture is scattered around, each piece just wanting to feel accepted. Chairs and stools, left out by unwanted guests, huddle for warmth, crowding the shadows that slink closer. The radiator sits on the wall, white metal plates, cold from disuse. They stare at me, willing for me to turn them on. To fill the cool, empty space. My hands shake. I don't think they did before. Probably a side effect. Excess adrenaline. Waiting for action. Waiting to run.
"Run! Run! Run!"
Her voice bounced from the green steel walls and slapped into my face forcing me to shake the echo out of my ears before facing her once more.
"Yaz!"
The beautiful smile that captured a thousand sunsets, dropped from her face, distorting into a deep concern as her chin turned down. A soft trickle flowed into the crevice of my belly button. Above, my ochre t-shirt began to show red.
The deep concern of her face never left me. The mellow sound of my name out of those lips. The wonderful lilt of her Yorkshire accent. I would never hear that voice again. Never hear the soft squeaks when she got especially excited. Nor her rich laughter that could make even the most lonely man smile. Her constant hope and optimism; her faith in humanity. I never understood that faith, witnessing idiots wreck the world, the economy and climate, but still being able to see something more in us. I would never hear anything from that voice again. Maybe a different voice, perhaps Scottish or Welsh. But never that wonderful melodic whisper.
The shadow of the cloud moves from my window. Didn’t I draw the curtains a minute ago? No, I wanted to witness the last moments of the day. The tree across the road waves at me, beckoning me out into the world. The rays of the setting summer sun, warm on my face. But inside this flat the air cools in the shadows and I am left abandoned. Alone.