Like Flowers to the Sun

This story is by Maxwell Dyke and was part of our 2019 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The morning sun shone over the mountaintops as a swirl of stale, second-hand smoke drifted past their table. At the first whiff she had scrunched her nose disapprovingly in the other direction. She wanted to not to care, but a recent sensitivity to the pungent odor had overcome her desires. He did not seem to notice.

—

He sat with his feet crossed, leaning back in his chair so that it’s front two legs hovered above the cobblestoned earth beneath them. He bobbed up and down in his seat absentmindedly, lost in a deep memory that had carried him far away from the rickety table in the courtyard of the café.

—

The train rattled smoothly along the tracks from Barcelona to Madrid. The hills had rolled past the window of the train, large and white and never-ending. They were as perfect and pure as her legs stretched out on his lap, shoes kicked into the corner of their private car. He was stroking her legs absentmindedly and watching the hills, and it was when he looked back at her sleeping quietly that he knew for certain.

—

She had planned this trip spontaneously, only a week before they were due to depart. To him it had seemed carefree, perfect in too true a sense of the word. Deep down there was a voice that had shouted warning from the beginning, but he had quelled it quickly before risking a listen. It was silently mocking him now, though only slightly, for it bore him a considerable amount of pity. Although his mind was not yet aware, he could feel this in his heart.

—

The table they sat at now was circular and made of iron, meshed and weaved to form a porous surface. Had it been dinnertime it would have been too small, them having developed a habit of ordering enough food to satisfy a group twice their size. They rarely finished their plates.

—

He had awoken that morning to find himself alone in their room, a small handwritten note in her place. It was ambiguous at best, and as he showered and dressed he subdued his growing fears once again. By the time he arrived at the café he was almost excited to find out what it was she had to say. When he sat down she had given him a curt hello and he had returned a rather confused one. No one had spoken after, her being nervous and him not knowing what to say, until the waitress arrived a few minutes later. As the silence had gone on, he felt an anxious doubt begin to fester within him like a mold in the dark.

—

“I had fun this weekend,” he said, as much to quiet his own suspicions as to spur a conversation.

—

“It’s been a fun few months,” she replied.

—

The excitement he had felt upon arriving had begun to crumble away like ash in the wind.

—

“Cynthia, you know how much I care about you?” He tried to change whatever horrible subject he could sense looming even before she had a chance to broach it.

—

“I do, Henry, but –“

—

“Please, no buts. This is real, Cyn. This is more real than anything I’ve ever felt.” His feet touched the ground, hands reaching out for hers.

—

“Henry, listen for a moment, will you?” she said, allowing his hands to hold her own. “I know how hard this is, trust me I do. I feel it too, but there’s something I need to –“

—

“Egg white omelet?”

—

“What? Oh, uh, yes, right here. Thank you.”

—

“Yogurt with fruit and honey.”

—

“Mhm,” he nodded politely, eyes never leaving her face.

—

“Do you need anything else?”

—

“No, we’re fine. Perfect, really. Thanks.” She pulled her hands back and took a long sip of water, then met his gaze. “Do I really need to say it, Hen?”

—

His heart hung like a pendulum, swinging freely through the open air before crashing back and forth between two extremes. The chair bobbed up and down nervously.

—

After a few eternal moments, he sighed and let his chair sink to the floor.

—

“No, I guess not.”

—

They sipped their coffees and stared off into a shallow distance, thinking simultaneously about many things and nothing at all. They were quiet for some time.

—

“I don’t feel like giving up,” he said finally.

—

“Neither do I.”

—

“So what happened? Why now?” Although his face remained calm, inside his body bubbled like steam trapped under a lid, waiting for an answer he neither wanted nor could live without.

—

“It’s complicated.”

—

The chair stopped bobbing. “I don’t think it is,” he said. “In fact, I don’t believe there’s anything so simple in the world.”

—

He stared at her intently, not knowing what to expect.

—

She stared back plainly, her mind mulling over things he could not see.

—

After a full minute, she spoke, “I’m at a point where I have to choose. It wasn’t an easy choice, Henry; you have no idea how hard it really was. I wanted this weekend to be a memory for us to hold on to.”

—

“Had to choose?” He tried to hold back a rage spreading within him like a fire through a dry summer’s brush, culminating in a messy sadness he couldn’t yet feel. “Six months of what, leading me on just for your fun, was it? Well, you can keep your memories. I don’t want them.”

—

“I’m sorry. I wish I had an answer for you.”

—

He sipped his coffee silently. From where she sat she could see a hollow quality in his eyes, a distance. The waitress came over and refilled his mug. Cynthia declined; that was enough caffeine for now.

—

He thought about the rolling white hills in Spain. He felt the anger slip out of his pores, like sand through his fingers, until he became deflated and nothing. “I don’t want answers. I want to be with the woman I love.”

—

She looked away and didn’t say anything. After a minute, he let out a snort and pulled a flask out of his jacket. He poured himself a healthy dose of his favorite medicine and reached over to pour her some. Her hand resolutely covered her mug.

—

“No? I know it’s a little early, Cyn, but I’ve never known you to oppose a little pick me up. It’s still me, you know.”

—

“I can’t, Hen.” Her eyes were swollen as she looked up at him.

—

He sat there dumbfounded for a moment. “You, you can’t?”

—

She shook her head and felt the heat of her tears blaze down her cheeks. Other than the weight of his body in the chair, Henry was aware of nothing at all. The world outside moved on without him, neither party seeming to notice or care. Even his thoughts seemed to pass by without so much as an introduction.

—

“It’s… so it’s not…” Henry stammered.

—

“No.”

—

“How do you know?”

—

“I know.”

—

“But how?”

—

“It was from the two weeks you spent in Japan, when we didn’t see each other. My husband and I, well, it happened. And now I have to do this, Hen. You understand, don’t you? I have to.” She cried finally, quietly and without shame. He reached over and held her hands until she stopped.

—

“I understand, Cynthia.” The daze had lifted and his mind felt lucid. He knew suddenly that the world was still filled with wildlife; that the rules of the animal kingdom reigned as fundamental as ever and that, in this moment, he understood the simple truth of it. As he held her hands he could hear every sound around them, see each speck of dust that floated by, watch the molecules that toiled away in the deep blue ocean’s of her eyes.

—

Even as he grew old and many things faded away, he never forgot that moment. It was her last gift to him.

—

When it was time to go, they stood up and embraced. To separate, as they eventually did, was to tear a tree from its roots. You see they had grown this way, souls intertwined, like flowers to the sun.