Withered

She lay there calmly, her eyes closed and her face relaxed. She murmured something past pouting lips as she dreamed. I smiled softly at her, a sad slant accompanying my gaze. Soft and old blankets covered us as the wind blew outside through the poplars, creating that whimsical wave of an ocean sound. I could smell the faint scent of her hair, but it was to be gone soon.1

Sitting up in the bed, I pushed my legs out from the covers and stood up near its side, slipping on some sandals. The floor creaked as I walked from the bedroom to the kitchen bay window where my dream sat outside. Greened cliffs broke down from the crests where other, rarely placed, homes stood against the purple dawn behind them. Snow had fallen higher up in the mountains among the pines. Suddenly I heard her murmur something from the bedroom again, and I began to prepare breakfast.2

I couldn't get much variety in the mountains, but what I did get was always delicious. I pushed a green grape into my mouth and popped its rubbery skin, the tang of its juice landing on my tongue and tingling slightly. Coffee already percolated on the counter. Knowing that I didn't have much time, I hurried up on the breakfast and brought two plates into the bedroom. 3

Placing one of the plates on my end-table, I sat the other on hers, then slowly started to stroke her hair. She sighed and the blanket fell. Again, she murmured. "Good morning," I said as I bent down to kiss her forehead. But my lips pressed against a pillow instead. Righting myself quickly, I looked down. She wasn't there. She had awoken a long time ago.4

I was so late.5

I looked down again, and my room began to change to what it had been before. It transformed back into my empty single bed within my single-man apartment. A cold desk sat in the corner. On its top, a three-year-old letter was placed and upon its curling paper, in cursive writing, her murmur was formed:6

"I loved you." That was all it said. Pictures of the mountain home and years of wasteful writing surrounded it.