A Passel Of Poems & Short Stories

Everything

To him, she was everything.
She was his air. His coffee in the morning; the flowers gently waving on the road side; the rays of sun dappled on his desk; laughter floating through the summer day; the smell of ancient literature.

He came home to her bright eyes and sweet giggle. She would run from him, then yield with the soft, low laugh of a lover. They never stopped touching, a hand placed on his, lips against the hair, hip knocking his. Tease! he would say, flicking her with a dish towel when she threw soap at him. After everything was done, they slipped into the den. The fire crackled and snapped, ferocious in its contained fury. His head was in her lap, her fingers in his hair. She read a book, he gazed at her, at the worlds reflected in her eyes.

One day he didn't come home.
She waited. And waited. Their dinner grew cold. Her forlorn figure paced the porch, her nervous fingers dialing and redialing. 7, 8, 9, 10, time and time again.
She laid down in the den, gazing far away, past the glowing embers of the nights fire that he hadn't been there to enjoy. Past the curtains ruffling, rippling quietly as though a phantom was passing through. Past the echoes of sirens in the distance. Past this world. 
A firm hand thumped on the door.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
She leapt from her reverie, and across the house, in a split second it seemed. Flinging the door open, eyes wide, hair coming out from the ponytail, she took in the police men on her porch.
"I'm sorry."
To her, he was everything.