“So this sneak preview,” she said.

“Uh huh.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s called Summer’s Over, I answered. “It’s about the end of a relationship.”

She nodded, in an understanding, honourable kind of way. “Show me, she said.”


Summer’s Over

It’s over.

Summer, I mean.  But so is the relationship that we have known, and life is never going to be the same again.  They tell me I’m clever with words, so I’m using my words now to try to express how I feel about your going.  How many different ways are there to say it:  separation; break-up; leaving; divorce; ending.  Maybe now that you’ve gone I’ll write them out, calligraphy style, just like you used to do.  Then I can stick our life together in a scrapbook. At least I’ll have the memories.

Of course, you will say that none of those words is appropriate.  It’s merely a matter of life taking its natural course.  Some things have to end so that others can begin.  You say you’ll go on loving me even now that you’ve gone.  And maybe in a way that is true.  But I know full well that when you have readjusted, orientated yourself to flying solo, one night across a crowded room some other man is going to catch your eye and sweep your off your feet. I am powerless to prevent that now.

Eighteen years is such a long time.  I don’t know how I will carry on without you.

Last night you packed your bags.  This morning you carried them downstairs.  That’s something else that’s different now.  You used to let me do that for you.  It’s yet another change that marks the passage of time and the evolution, the entropy of our relationship towards its inevitable conclusion.

So now I am seated at the table across from where you used to sit, where I looked into your eyes.  Eighteen years you sat there.  Now all I have to look at is the Beaune Premier Cru which I swirl

around my glass.  The cut of the crystal catches the sunlight through the wine, making ruby fairies dance across the ceiling.  Their swirling chaotic celebration of sensuality transports me back across the years.

I remember the day we met, or rather the night.  The snow was still piled up on the street corners. Only those that had to, ventured out and neither of us had any business being away from the warm places we had just left. But you were insistent that this was the time we were first to meet.

Strangely enough, when faced with the reality ofl confrontation after months of expectation, your confidence left you. You could not speak. Your companions had to make a point introducing you to me.  You were so damn shy that I don’t think you had a word to say for yourself all that evening.  But it was your eyes that got me. I’ll always remember your eyes.  I was smitten.  People say there is no such thing as love at first sight.  I know different. 

Of course, on your side, it took a little longer to develop.  But pretty soon you’d moved in with me and I knew deep inside that this relationship would be last a lifetime. Mind you, there were times when I wondered whether we were going to make it.  The first few years were tumultuous.  So little articulate conversation passed between us, and so much screaming characterised our early relationship. Mostly yours – but I did my share of shouting too.  Sometimes you seemed incapable of responding to rational persuasion.   We both matured a little as the years rolled by, didn’t we, Sweetheart ?

“Then what?” She asked.

“People don’t like long blog posts, I replied.”

“Whadda you mean?” she said in irritation. “You can’t stop now!”

“I mean you have to read the next post for the end of the story I said.”

“Meanie,” she said.

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