Summer Storm

One day, he returned to the villa and found her resting at on a coach. He paused to appreciate the way the sun and soft wind played in her hair and how the windows cast shadows spots on her skin. Suddenly she slightly shifted her body, and her eyelashes fluttered. But then she stayed very still. Almost too still.

With a smile, he lifted her up and held her in his embrace.

"You really don't know how to pretend, do you?" As if he believed she was sleeping.

Suddenly, her body quivered.

"I'm home, love." He said, wondering why she became nervous.

"Mmm. Wicked lover is home at last." She murmured, and then wriggled her way out.

He followed her to the kitchen.

"Do you want me to cook something for you, love?"

"Nah, I was home all day, I'm not hungry." She answered, rubbing her chin.

He paused, letting the coat slip out of his arms. She had a habit of rubbing her chin when she was hiding something.

"I thought you'd go out to that art store with your friends. You were telling me about it for a while, love. Weren't you planning to go there today?"

She quickly glanced at him and went up to the cupboards, turning away from him.

"Nah, change of plans. We decided to go later this week."

She took out chamomile tea and started preparing the teapot.

"I stayed home." She repeated. "Really."

He nodded and went to change clothes. He didn't say anything even though he knew that if she makes chamomile tea – it's to calm herself down. He used to prepare it for her whenever she was feeling flustered.

But he'd lie if he said he wasn't hurt or surprised when once again, when they hugged, she shivered and then became very still, as if afraid to make any movements.

At last, he asked, "Is everything alright?"

She seemed taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"You, you are very quiet these days."

She glanced away from his face and into the window. "It's just because I'm afraid to make any movements."

He was confused.

"I don't want to scare away the treasure-moment of hugging you." She said, with a somewhat forced smile and stroked her face.

He was also afraid. Scared of what was to come. Because he had a premonition that what was coming could be too much for him.

Later in the evening, he was laying beside her, carefully observing her sleeping face. Suddenly, he realized that right now he was very quiet himself, because he didn't want to wake her up, and because he didn't want to scare away this "treasure moment".

"Is this what she was thinking of before?" he thought.

It was that night that he noticed - she stopped using the perfume. Abruptly.

He realized it when he was kissing her neck. When the discovery hit him, he frantically started searching through her body, for the scent that he became so addicted to. The scent of happiness.

And yet, he couldn't find it.

"Maybe, she just forgot about it."

But, it wasn't so.

He suddenly noticed that the body beside him became very rigid. He thought she was cold, and snuggled closer, yet, when he tried to kiss her neck once again, she resisted. She struggled out of his embrace.

Silence.

He reached out to her, and again, she avoided his hand.

"My love, what's wrong?"

"I'm sick." She said. Then nothing.

After that she refused to respond to his questions if she's unwell, and just went out of the bed. She slept on the couch.

Next morning he saw her standing blackly in front of the window. She heard his footsteps and turned around.

As she walked past, she pretended not to notice his outstretched hand, and just slipped away into the kitchen.

He looked at his palm, but in the end, he said nothing.

She was now avoiding him.

He thought he somehow made her feel uncomfortable, since now she was avoiding his touch.

He moved out of the bedroom and said he will sleep on the couch instead.

She nodded.

Later that day, he noticed she was changing the sheets after him.

It's likely he made her despise him. She was probably disgusted with him and his touch.

Several months ago, they had bought two special cups for couples, but she accidentally broke her own, and since then, always used his, teasing that he should feel honored her lips graced his cups with their touch.

But, now, she didn't drink out of his cup anymore. Instead, she kept one of the plain cups separately from other, and always drank from that one.

He noticed that she went out during the day, yet she was always at home when he returned.

Chamomile tea was running out.

Their relationship grew cold, though one-sidedly, because he continued showing his affection for her and only stopped doing things that were making her uncomfortable. The thought of separating seemed ridiculous to him, and he was sure one day they would be okay again.

"It will be fine. We will work it out somehow." He thought, brewing the tea for her.

And, one day, she suddenly returned to her previous self. She hugged him, she took him by his hand, she rubbed her head on his chest affectionately.

He tried to discuss with her if something was wrong, yet she ignored any topic that referred to the past few weeks.

"Love, you can't ignore that something's changed, please!" He said, desperately.

But she kept slipping away.

When they were laying in bed that day, he was unrestful. Here she was, so close, yet it felt so far away. A week ago, she started using a new perfume. It was strong and crude, and somewhat nauseating. He felt she used it to mask out another scent, to cover something up, and he didn't like that.

He didn't feel they were back to "normal". They couldn't be.

He moved his arm and touched her. And, like he expected, yet also like he feared, she shivered, and her body stiffened.

"Why are you keeping this up?" He whispered weakly.

She moved her body to face him and opened her eyes.

He noticed they were no longer gleaming happily as they did before. Instead, they were boringly glancing at him, tired of what they were seeing.

"I met someone." She said.

His body went limp, and he felt a sting going though him. She met someone.

For a moment, he forgot how to talk. Or maybe, he just didn't want to. It was so painful he could only bear to listen her continue.

"Now that I met that…special someone…I don't think we can stay how we were before."

He didn't move. He didn't retract his arm. He only laid there, with his eyes now closed to keep tears away, and kept listening.

"Ever since I found out…Now that I think about it, we were destined for each other. I can't imagine us not being together…"

"Who?" He asked, feeling oh so very miserable.

"What good will it be even if I say?" She answered in a strange manner.

She paused.

"Is he handsome, my love?"

He felt sour saying this. He remembered how, before they started dating, she insisted on painting his portrait. And that once they started dating, she kept repeating that it was probably because of his looks that she fell for him, and that he definitely has to take care of his face, else she will run off with another man.

She was a painter. She loved beautiful things, and most of all, beautiful people. It was not unusual for him to find her admiring a certain male or female, because of a "special look" they possessed. He sometimes asked if he also had that "special look", as she used to say. She always answered that he is the most special of them all.

Later on, he understood that by saying "special look" she didn't necessarily mean an attractive person, but rather an interesting twinkle in their eyes, an aesthetically pleasing nose, or a beaming smile. Sometimes, it was the aura of a person that she was after.

He understood that, yet he couldn't help asking her if her "special person" was handsome. He knew she wouldn't appreciate the question. It was as if accusing her of being a cheap person, that was solely looking at faces. He knew it would hurt her, yet he still asked.

"Is he handsome, my love?"

He heard her sharply inhaling the air.

"Handsome…Hard to say, even for me." A hesitant voice responded. "Yet I would never be able to run away."

It became very stuffy in the room. He was trembling.

"He is my ultimate lover." Her voice broke the short silence.

His heart was dangling on the string, and now the string snapped. Inside of him, there was a never before known emptiness, and an intense cold. His heart fell into the sea of despair.

"And if, if he, if he is your ultimate lover…Then, love, my love, if he is your ultimate lover, what am I?" He asked desperately.

Silence.

At once, she hugged him. Firmly. So that he almost imagined that the large distance between them never existed. Then, she spoke.

"I was hoping…That maybe, just maybe I could get to keep you as my side lover…"

A side lover.

His deep sea of affection, the tender feelings he held for her, what were they for?

He laughed madly, and pulled himself up from the bed, gently pushing the female away from him.

"Do you think I could ever be a side lover?"

His words felt softly, yet inside he felt roaring anger. It hurt to be discarded by her. It hurt when she said another man was her ultimate lover, and not he. But what was that pain comparing to the anger that he was drowning in now?

How can she hope that she can still keep him as a side distraction? How can he bear it?

He offered her his purest part, and she felt it was dirty enough to deserve being offered a title of a "side lover"?

He looked at her, feeling it was the last glance he'd send her way. Her silhouette, blurred by tears, looked somewhat sad.

He could not comprehend it. What answer was she expecting?

Somehow, it hurt even more seeing her expression, full of deep pity. What was she pitying him for?

He stormed out, knowing that if he didn't get out now, he would end up lashing out on her, or pressing her with some now useless questions.

Once outside, he gasped for cold air, and stumped towards the bench.

At first, he wanted to give it a good kick, and take out the anger that he couldn't bring himself to take out in front of her. But looking at the little bench, memories flooded him, his anger dissipated. He hesitated.

Ultimately, he threw himself on top of it, letting go of the pain that welled up inside his heart. The bench collapsed. Yet he didn't move away. His body was shaking like a leaf under the unruly wind.