empty

Whenever he remembered her, it was never the sublime. Never the fantastic sex they had, never the stunning moments they shared. It was the mundane. It was the long drives through the countryside, when he'd look over and see her smiling and singing absentmindedly. And she'd catch his eye and give him the look.

It was her empty seat he was looking at now. The pang - more like a heart attack - stayed longer this time. He felt empty. He wanted the world around him to be as bleak as he felt. The sun irritated him. The clear sky annoyed. The sad mournful songs did nothing.

His mind was awash with what he could have done. He analyzed everything. He scoured his memory for something he'd done. The big things first. But there were none. Just little ones. Bickering. The way couples do. He always got the impression she'd seen that as an issue. A blot on an otherwise perfect horizon. He thought otherwise. He only ever argued with people he liked. Indifference was far worse than anger or hatred. And he only ever really bickered with her.

He turned back to the road. Where to go? He wanted something, anything, so he would know what to do. He would go to the end of the earth for her, but only if she wanted him to. He could see no future without her, but he was willing to move on, if she wanted him to. He was in purgatory.

And then she was back, back in her seat. Back where she belonged,next to him. He knew it wasn't real, but now, for just one more minute, he wanted it to be as it was. As it should.