The buttercups swayed to the strings of grass and the woods in the wind. The sweet quartet of birds, bike, and boy lulled me into quiet. Transiently, my eyes sealed and transiently I was content. His breath looked like macaroni and cheese, sounded like saliva, tasted like the road home, but felt like nothing at all. When my eyes opened, and I glimpsed the world through my kitchen window, I knew: In the end, it is not mine to have happiness.
“I think that, maybe, we should break up.” His voice is a nine on the richter scale and I quake. Not a word escapes my mind until I am a thousand miles away, safe from the words that have already fled his.
“Okay.” The whisper is enough to seduce raindrops from my cloudy eyes.