Black Dress

He crushed the flower with trembling hands; the red petals fell to the floor like blood from new wounds. For a moment he just stared down incomprehensively at the remnants that represented his relationship, his life. A draft blew as the door opened and she prepared to leave, the petals momentarily danced on the zephyr before also being ushered out of his life.

He looked up from the depth of his solitude and glanced toward the door; there she stood, her silhouette framed by the light streaming through from the hall, the blackness of her A Line dress darkened by it. With her back to him she hesitated, processing the feelings raging through her body. Was she going to give him another chance? Would she regret it forever if she walked out that door? But they were the simply questions popping through her mind at that moment in time; the usual incidental feelings that accompany that moment of breaking up. The deeper more honest issues were further from her mind, they would take days, weeks, or even years to unearth and wrestle with.

She placed her hands on her shoulders crossing her arms over the scooped neckline of her dress, dropped her head and closed her eyes. She sighed, fighting back the tears endeavouring to betray more than she wanted. The moment just gone, retraced itself through her mind, replayed itself with a crescendo of pain. She was at that moment in danger of being lost to the hurt and indecisiveness of separation.

“Can I help you Madame?” Asked the Maitre D’

“Just my coat please,” she responded without looking up. She didn’t need to look to see the concern on Claude’s face. She knew that he was a good man, knew that he cared for his cliental, and knew that he still had his fill of chivalry.

Claude took her long evening coat from the cloak room and helped her put it on. “Would Madame like me to call a taxi? Or I could get our driver to take you home.”

“No, that’s ok. I’ll walk, thank you Claude. I need the fresh air.” She walked to the door without a second glance for the architect of her grief.

Jack’s dull eyes followed her before returning to the champagne flute in his hand. He drank the final third and lowered his head once more. Nothing felt right anymore. This whole moment wasn’t expected, she’d taken him off guard. Or had she? Maybe that truly was the problem. He should have known this was coming, seen it from all possible flanks. Had he been careless? Had he been neglecting her for all this time? Or had she just taken advantage of an opportune momentary lapse in concentration to throw in the towel?

He crushed the flute with trembling hands; the red blood fell to the floor like petals from a disregarded valentines rose.