Pencil, Ink-wash, Watercolour on Arches, Cold-Pressed, Watercolour Block.
Loraine, Captif Amoureux.
I had called and written. The emails were unanswered even though they were not automatically returned. A few times I talked on the phone, hearing shallow breathing and I begun to hate the silence before at an appropriate break the phone was switched off. We lived far enough away that we never accidently met, and now, suddenly, she was here, only 10 feet away, silent, quiet, alone.
It had taken this long to not think of her in every breath I took now should I speak?
And what would I say? What insult can I add to the injury already imparted to a graceful soul? The urgent tinkling bell of a bicycle brought me back and stepping off the road I was 2 foot closer and nearly at the door to the café. People were already looking up from their tables with questioning looks at this chap, obviously a foreigner, staring at the pale, sad woman just inside the doorway.
I snatched the watch-cap off my head, stuffed it into my pocket and pulled down the scarf under my chin. Bending the body as if to peer into the shadows I called out with a lively smile: “Loraine… comment vas-tu ma chère?”
She looked up expressionless, held my eyes for a second and looked away and down to her coffee.
I shuffled, lost for words, embarrassed by the silence, isolated at the edge of the side-walk while conversations stilled to look at this intruder.
My mind was desperate for her to respond, even if it was to abuse me, even if to hurl something towards me, but nothing came at me but a wall of silence.
My eyes downcast I shuffled ungainly from the accusing eyes of those who did not realize how tenuous love is… and the wound reopens, just a little more jagged.