Petrichor Between Us

I ponder if you wait long enough. The universe will intercede, interject a prolonged separation from humanity. If merely sitting, doing little to cause ripples—would that eventually create causation, and would the universe answer?

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With a knock.

A shock to the system. An inhale. Hold. Then exhale.

The vibration of oak under flesh over bones.

Hesitation?

Fingers hovering on the latch, trembling.

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A simple knock. Causation. The beginning of a new interaction. The visage at the other side of the wood. A flash of colour, of hair and flesh. A new start. An argument, the debate? A forced reconciliation with the undisputed fact of existence and resemblance to one's fellows.

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No island is a man.

No man is a simple animal.

Shedding skin and sin in a cavernous hideaway.

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The gap widens as the abyss between us narrows.

A recollection begins as pupils adjust and focus.

Focus on the olive skin. The claret blushed cheeks.

The golden cornfield tresses.

All those long forgotten memories. Green-tinted glances of blossoming love and lust.

Windswept trysts under moonlit skies and fractious debates in the rage of summer's fire. Hope beckoned us.

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A life forged together, welded by trust and a melding of minds. Wrecked by the wretched injustice of life's uncertainties.

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Salivation rising to nausea at the recollection. Denial begets desire, which in turn begets disdain and deep sadness.

Ushering and welcoming with caution and delirium. Sins of the past, buried shallow, surface.

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Her scars, visible behind lines of resilience. She breathes life. Life I inhale.

The subtle gestures, her hand accepts my crystal porter.

The warm glass meets our cold fingers.

Lilac and heady, the wine.

A oaky, earthy sigh escapes the bottle, rhyming with the subtle drum of the rain on the roof and window.

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We share. The world stops. Cliché, perhaps—but fact.

The liquid lining our tongues and throats.

Aqua vitae. A newfound spirit careens through me.

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Our glances turn to stares, as her breath hitches and she turns to the window.

As the pitter-patter of the heavens. The petrichor, stale intoxication through the crack between the window pane and frame. Marks our reconnection.

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The years drift. The pain emerges.

Tears flow.

The loss, we. No—she suffered.

Brought forth. To judge and execute, the man I was or am?

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Escape is never the safest path.

But one I know so well.

Her shoulders tight.

My hand tempts fate, bone-bare fingers curl—comfort/confront.

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Eyes meet. They dilate: excitement, enticement, repulsion. Warmth glows as my tears pour. Sorrow won't win back the years.

But sorrow might win back her trust. A chance for something—different.

My abandonment brought despair. Our despair.

Shared.

Resentment, her bed. Abhorrence, my hovel.

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It's easier to leave—than to be left behind.

Leaving was never my proud. But broken people can't fix broken people. More than just good intentions and well-wishing. Words woven with sincerity cannot damn the rivers of calamity.

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A sleepless night of tears and bridges and promises broken, mended. My calloused hands of remorse meet her gentle palms of hope. Tentative as tension dissipates.

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I recall telling this with a sigh...

Two cerebral roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less travelled by—and that made all the difference.

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For now, the convergence, as we re-embrace and shed our past. For the other was not the better claim.

Time and understanding, wrought with endeavours hard and tested, would bring light back to our life, and this man, this woman, no longer islands swept from civilisation. Hearts and minds, realigned. Combined. The empty cathedral of our past is now a fire-warmed temple of our future.

With a knock. A shock to the system. A chance. A ripple through the universe. Causation answered. At last. An inhale. Hold. Then exhale.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Something a bit different from the various horror ideas I binned in the recycling centre in my head. This is for the A Knock at the Door challenge. A more poetic and expressive story. I think it's self-explanatory. It is loosely based on the beautiful Pearl Jam song, Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, from their masterpiece of a second album, Vs. Added after the fact, but I just remembered there is also a little reference to a Jeff Buckley song (well, it's not technically his song, but his version is my favourite and the one I am most familiar with)

For bonus, geekiness. There are several reference points.

Robert Frost's masterful The Road Not Taken is paraphrased

There is also a line taken from another Pearl Jam song, Dissident, and one taken from one of my favourite REM songs, Leaving New York.

Here are a few other things: