He looked at the wooden chair in front of him. His eyes were tense, but his heart felt even more gripped.
She had gallivanted over to the right of him in front of the slightly crooked and to tall antique dresser they had found one morning at the market before the thought of them became history.
The chair was the most simple of elementary in its composure, yet somehow with her hand resting upon the edge, her elbows nodding from side to side, her hair seemingly getting old and beginning to fall out--it became worth at least a small scar of inscription on the surface.
He did not know what suit he was going to wear to work the next day. He felt like a freshly squeezed glass of juice. This glass needed a shot of vodka. He was meeting her with his eyes with much hesitation. Two worlds together, so damn far apart. There was an uncomfortable and uneasy feeling in his head and his stomach.
Something was wrong.
Frida Kahlo. The Little Deer Oil on masonite 1946. 22.5 x 30 cm.
In the still of the moment and with her inability to remain still acting up, the metal stopper on the bottom of the chair took glide across the tiles of the floor. The lines of the floor, the symmetry and illusion appeared to enamor the design of purple circle-faded shapes and what appeared as symbols that communicated stories of another time and place. That what goes around, comes around is life's joke on you.
If they would have known then. She gazes up at the wonderful landscape painting that they had seen together at the antique market another Saturday. He had gone back to get it for her (he was pretty wonderful), because she stood there stilled by its captivity to her eyes beholder.
He had pictured that her hand would be the one that would hold his always when he needed a friend. He felt as through he had been struck by a poisonous arrow. And love. How could she do this to him?
She rested her elbows on the dresser. "Just leave," she hid her fears and pretended she was not broken inside. How could he do this to her?
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Silence became the loudest noise they had ever heard.
The heart is a unit that is productive when it does not suffer asphyxiation. Like a bird, it must be free to find its course. There will be dangers in the skies ahead. They know this, did they forget?