Tearing of Pages

His heavy brows began to gather with perspiration. His shirt stuck to the middle of his back. Patches began to form under his arms. Still, only confusion. Making decisions were never his forte. Even what to eat, what to wear, much less when to draw the line.

His bus arrived. And left. He sighed, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The heat was not helping.

Things kicked off the moment he laid eyes on her five years ago. All his friends said that it would only last for a fleeting moment, but it hadn't. It has lasted longer than the blossoming of morning glory. Much longer. Perhaps too long now.

Laughter, love, joy, anger, disappointment. It was all part and parcel, wasn't it? Isn't it? People often talked about a turning point, but the path never veered. It seemed natural. It was always going to end someday. Once the laughter and sweet nothings were used up. Once banality set in. Once those three words were no longer felt.

He asked himself if she would ever cry if he died. How long would she mourn? Uncertainty answered him.

He took out his diary, and flipped to the pages where he had pasted all the photos they had taken together. A drop of perspiration landed on one of the photos. Or was it tears? New Year's Eve 2000. The turn of the century. He could still smell her, taste her, but something was wrong. He tried again, running her hair through his mind, pursing his lips and feeling hers. There was nothing left.

He shut his eyes, and felt the pages between his fingers. He began tearing. There was nothing left.