I overheard three couples decoupling. The utterances, the suddenness of their statements were poisonous bird seed scattered to the breeze, and on the mutual derision the pigeons fed, and what I heard, I didn’t want to hear. Not a syllable of it.
You are not an ethical man. You said you’d call me back. You promised. You bastard.
A pollen tsunami envelops me. It's Spring in this lovely glade, a garden of Eden, and I am head stuffed and sneezing, red-eyed. I wonder amid the lilting robins and leafing trees—does this couple fear the quiet? Is each other’s voice both a poultice and a fever combined? Maybe for the better, for the best? For the rest of their days, test, test, and test. Run their lines, resist, rest, exhume, rise again, old script, new script, repeat.
Refrain.
Why would you say such an awful thing to me? I was happy. Now I’m sad.
It could be, maybe should be. It should be; maybe will be. I pray these lethal potshots are misheard; blanks, the benefit of the doubt given, I will. Without context, that's the generous thing to do. But I think I’m correct. My ears don’t lie, neither do my eyes. Neither do their shoes, heel to heel; where one goes, the other leaves.
Survives.
You left me all alone, and I don't know anyone here. I want to go.
But then, I think if that is what they said and what they mean, what are they not saying? What have I not heard? Behind padlocked doors and shuttered eyes. Ears full. Words of no return. They’ve abandoned ship, with crashing waves, crushing lament, miles from shore, alone, forlorn, lungs choking salt water, hearts hardening.
Cement.
Hearing what I heard, I so wished I had left my ears at home. Tucked safely in a thick, ceramic cookie jar. Where only the sweetest confections are hoarded for late-night nibbling.
Recollection.