Mon, 21 Dec 2009 03:02:47 +0000
She was careful as she picked across the rubble to where he lay gasping, spurting his life. “If you thought me delicate then, I was. Not fragile, no, that was what you made me.” She touched him sweetly, leaving the scent of rose and resentment behind her.
Love wasn’t something we planned for, you must understand this. It swept in uninvited, a great wind that destroyed our taste for the past.
Last night, I had a dream. In a satellite graveyard Che appeared; fierce eyes under heavy ponderous brows. J’accuse! I was comfortable, complacent Middle-Class with delusions of oppression, said the finger pointed at my new shiny shoes. I hung my head but secretly sulked.
He’d fretted long: hand-wringing, brow-wiping. In the end it blurted out. She froze, spoon of applesauce halfway to her mouth. She’d never been so beautiful; he’d never felt so ill.