Tell A Tale in 500 Words

Blonde on Blonde By Carol Bowerman

It’s hard to make decisions that hold their shape during execution.

She speaks at him. Dark ochre. Flame brown. Boiling milk carefully held to a simmer. Gesturing carefully. This. Why. Please. Arches lift. She mirrors. Grey eyes into grey. Searching for logic. Appealing to his ego. Waiting for responses, a blending, that does not come. No arguing. She sifts for a solution. She boosts him up. Doesn’t want to see him fail. He’s grown into this. He has it all. She doesn’t understand. Grey eyes with flecks talk to the room.

He is like a smooth stone lost in a blue ocean, or a yawning crater. Existing in an alternate world too far away to hear anything. He is silently pondering whether to drink his hot chocolate or not, or to let it sit and get slowly slowly cooler, thicker. It was sweet, probably too sweet, cloying, when all he wanted was a hint of comfort. He could leave the rest. His grey eyes lift and he clicks into what she is saying for a moment, then his thoughts pour away. She never realises when he doesn’t want to talk. No conversation about this. Or at all. He doesn’t know what he thinks anyway and why does it matter since he has years and years ahead of him to make any decisions. A silent pressure begins to bubble in his fingertips. He flicks his fringe, and grey eyes with flecks look out at the car park.

Two hours pass. They have talked but not communicated. His pocket vibrates and their private moment is gone. A new idea. A different course. Both are propelled into action. They stand. They leave. Walking in the same direction but taking different paths. They are not the same.

That night the house is burnt to the ground. The insurance company refuses to accept liability.

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