Just Read It

Under the deep cover of night you make your way through the woods to where the last remaining sycamore grows. As you get near, its great branches sway towards you in welcome, reminding you of all the perfect moments spent here. This is her favourite place.

You first saw her that summer walking around the town, in a bright yellow dress that complimented the deep brown tones of her skin. You caught her eye as she went past, and she smiled. An invitation, you thought, as the heady scent of her perfume filled your senses. 

After that day, you went everywhere she went; to the supermarket where she diligently ran customers’ groceries past a scanner; the pub where she and her friends flirted with the barman during happy hour. To her flat where you would catch a glimpse of her through her bedroom window before she unmercifully drew her curtains closed. 

On the days when she finished her morning shift at the supermarket, she came to these woods. She would sit reading under the canopy of the sycamore, undisturbed by the world.

You longed to be with her and dreamed of the life you could have together; a house with a garden in the nice part of town, maybe a dog or two. Cosy evenings, late weekend mornings, long walks. Picnics by the sycamore where you would share your secrets.

Once, as you paid for your shopping, she offered you a polite, tentative smile. You forgot yourself for a moment and let your fingers touch when she gave you your change. You saw yourself kissing her, your hands running over the silky smoothness of her skin. But she pulled her hand away. You uttered a hasty apology then left.

You weren’t prepared when you saw her with another man, a laddish nobody who frequented the local gym with a religious zeal. You saw them in town together one evening, hand in hand, coming out of the pub.

He whispered something in her ear and she leaned against him giggling. You noticed how her eyes softened whenever she looked at him. Your heart felt like it had been laced with a thousand paper cuts. 

You stand before the sycamore listening to the soft pant of your breath. Your heart pulses steadily. Could she ever have loved you the way you loved her? Your eyes sting with unshed tears as yellow-orange and red leaves begin to fall to the ground. You hold a chainsaw against the trunk and begin to cut.

Photo by Mr. Great Heart on Unsplash