OKAY

It was a small glass bottle, and as she walked the shore, she stopped at the most perfect spot. There she sat, sifting and sifting, looking for exquisiteness. She found some little shells, few bits of coral and these she carefully mixed with fine white sand and trickled them into the bottle. The green heart-shaped glass she'd picked up earlier wouldn't fit - oh the irony, for it surely belonged in there!

She walked some more, the bottle clutched as one embraces a most beloved keepsake. It was in her hand see, and one day soon his hand would hold it... shake it gently and maybe in the doing feel the devotion left by her fingerprints. She imagined his over hers, their fingers merging via this tiny bottle.

"I want the shirt off your back," she'd said. Needing to breathe him in, to feel the feel of him, wanting that most intimate immersion of one into another's still warm clothes - for she would sense the heat despite the journey, she was sure of it.

"Okay," he'd said and she mused since whether he'd understood these nuances or whether her appeals were ever noted. She wondered if the fondness she poured into that small bottle would be but mere and momentary fascination, not at all the grand expression she'd envisioned.

"I need to go away," she said. She woke that morning to a fading edge, her frantic fingers grasping air instead of him. Words were unnecessary, mere commentary on first world problems. Only the "P.S. I love you," she left behind as she packed her bags - only this served to soothe her, reminding her he was the source of all her passion.

"Okay," he answered through the air and she was broken, broken.

"Fight for me!" she whispered to the dawn. The grey sky mocked and so she shut the curtains and she blocked all sight, all sound. She hid between the sheets and whimpered like a child who knew not why it hurt. She clutched the silly toy her children gave her because she'd seen it one day and they'd seen her eyes. They'd seen her eyes!

She stood on the corner many hours afterwards, thinking he'd realize his mistake and run to her, run to her! Then it got dark, an absolute darkness visible only to those blinded by an eclipse. She feared then, even if he drew near she wouldn't see him, wouldn't behold him and that she would pass him by like any other stranger crossing her path. Even the bumping into him would go unheeded.

Oh if only he'd cast out another word, if only he'd tossed any other lifeline!

"Approved, correct, convenient, fair," her affluent thesaurus said when she sought definition there. She shivered. Gallantry it seemed was dead - and in the dying - leaving her its victim.