Aftermath, a piece of flash fiction

 

Over my shoulder, I turn to look back at her- checking if she is looking back at me, checking me looking back at her.

But she isn’t.

She’s already gone.

Swallowed by the rolling tide of people. At the back wall, the muscles in my neck contortion and rope, I am the high water mark.

Amazing, I think, the power of a single moment.

The resonance.

About me are strewn the defining scenes of the last ten years. These vignettes - merely pinpricks in something larger.

Already I can hardly hold onto them.

Soon they will mock me.

A sting of light bulbs at a garden party, caught by the wind, popping one after another.

“Obsession is different to addiction”, she told me, “Obsession has an expiry date; one can move onto something else. Addiction is infinite.”

My train is called: garbled and taunting. I should get it.

I can’t.