The Walk

The walk there was always something I savoured, trying to make it last longer than the five minutes it usually took.

This was not because I wanted to delay my arrival at the destination at the end of the walk.

I just enjoyed the walk.

The trees swaying in the light breeze, or catching the rain of overcast days, and drip-dropping it over me. I often saw jackdaws and crows; if I didn't see them, I heard them. Sometimes, if I were lucky, a grey squirrel would scramble through the patches of grass beside the path I walked or across the path, stopping me in my tracks.

The walk gave me time to prepare. Time to take stock of who I was, where I was going, and who was waiting for me, and why any of it mattered at all.

The scent of pine, wild grasses, or damp grass blades, petrichor, and the funk of my fragrance, another sensory reminder of her. It had been gifted to me not long after our lives intertwined.

It would be treading overly familiar ground to say she was my whole world.

The beauty to my beast, the storm to my teacup, the Eva to my Hitler. The Medusa to my Perseus—if he gave her freedom, and never slayed her.

Maybe even the Ghislaine to my Jeffrey? History will never forgive us. I'm not sure I do either.

At the epicentre of our love was an exchange of power, of ideas, of need, want, desire, greed, and desecration.

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Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: I tried to write a romantic micro. I will try again tomorrow.

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