In front of me: a fruit basket, most of the fruit overripe, flies hovering above a pair of oranges more blueish white than orange due to the mold that has conquered their peel; to the right there’s a 3 day-old glass of wine, lip stains clearly visible on the rim of the glass; in the background: an anatomical model of the human body. A still life. Still life.

The past three days, no one has entered the room. But saturday… so much liveliness, so much bustle and hustle, so many tears… of joy, of pain, of fear. So many words spoken, so many things left unspoken. So many things taken for granted. So many things taken but not granted. I step on a walnut. It cracks open and out oozes what looks like the brain from my open skull. Seconds before: a phone call. Names mentioned, pleasantries exchanged, rumors shared, laughter, shrugs, the raising of eyebrows, the nervousness distinguishable. Indistinguishable some syllables, but palpable the whole. Holes in speech, lack of empathy, lack of interest, lack of heels clicking on the tarmac.

She sat there, weeping, her head in her hands. Her future out of her hands. Or in her hands again, now that the leading role had been given back to her. Her life. Her strive. Her loss. Her gain. She was still crying when she first started to smile again. She had gotten rid of her inhibitions. Now she was trapped only by the limits of herself.

He had wanted to just continue. The monotony of monochrome days. Different shades of grey, but never anything more adhering to either light or darkness. Questions raised but never answered. Dreams unlived and lives undreamt. The yearning to feel just for a moment that which brings momentary bliss but is also what keeps the shackles on for eternity.

Cin cin, then a glass fell down. In shatters the frame, its contents spreading on the carpet like a river making its way through stone, forming its own bed. Her. Him. Fighting. Tears. Sex. Made up? No. More tears. Holding of hands. Resting of heads. From the table, the sickly sweet smell of ripe fruit. When will the first flies feast on this? When will the demise of one thing become life for the other?

A quill on a piece of paper. Ink dripping down on the page. Rip it up. Keep ripping it up. Different page, different content. Tear it up, but don’t tear up.

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