Unspoken Grey

A man hurries to the red postbox at the end of his road. He is late today and the woman is walking away, barely perceptible through opaque sheets of rain. Against the grey concrete and relentless downpour, the crimson umbrella identifies her, bobbing along further into the distance until the grey swallows her.

She'll have no idea that last night he fell asleep wrapped in his floor rug, a faint beer odour oozing from its warps and wefts. His alarm failed to penetrate the hessian backing and the comfort of his self-inflicted penance.

He retrieves his letter from his inside pocket and posts it. Wet seeps through the already sodden cloth of his overcoat and rain channels down his face and neck. He imagines the raindrops are her fingers. She doesn't look back.

* * * * *

A man walks to the red postbox at the end of his street. The woman is already there. She clutches a folded red umbrella in her hand and he catches her eye. She grimaces, looks away, and raises the letter she holds, to the open mouth of the postbox. A moment of hesitation, barely perceptible, then plop, she posts it.

He drops his letter in after hers and thinks about following her. She knows this, lingers, then turns away. She pretends to look for something in her tote bag. He shoves his hands in his pockets, while the space between him and her swells; a large helium balloon pushing him further away. He imagines a million balloons swooping up into the murky sky and wonders if she feels the lightness. He walks away. She closes her bag and walks in the opposite direction.

* * * * *

A man walks to the red postbox at the end of his street. The woman approaches, clutching a scarlet umbrella above her head. He grips his lapels together and sinks into his coat as he strides. She retrieves a letter from the deep pocket of her trench coat and appears to be waiting for him to do the same.

With the letter in his hand--P.O Box address written in fountain pen, neat letters that slant to the right--he lifts it towards the postbox. Then, he changes his mind, falters, and offers it to the woman. She jumps back, one hand rushing to her chest. She opens her mouth but no words come; she only shakes her head.

He doesn't take his eyes off her, takes in the clear green of her irises, faint freckles on her nose and cheeks, and the chestnut curls tucked haphazardly into her coat. He brings the letter to his lips, then posts it. His gaze intensifies, dewy and heavy like the unspoken between them--a symphony that has lost its sound, not by accident, but more like the music has been siphoned out of it.

The woman almost throws her letter into the box and hurries away, oblivious to puddles and the grey water splashing behind, leaving grey splodges on the backs of her legs. She hurries, but not before he notices her eyes glisten; not before he sees the pain drowning those green irises. He feels the teeth of her pain devouring him from the inside and he wants more.

He will do this every day. She knows this. He will continue to write, I'm sorry. I love you. Please come back, until her reply deviates from, I'm sorry; I can't...Not yet.

* * * * *

Teresa Renton has a first-class degree in English Linguistics and Language Creativity. Her work has previously been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Across the Margin, Stick Figure Poetry, 101 Words, and 50 Give or Take

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