For Missing Him.

by Anais Kelsey-Verdecchia

She wept.

She wept for missing him. The turns of phrase in a late-night conversation; the scratchy kisses; the snorting laughter; the books left on the kitchen table with a scribbled note: ‘read these’; the ukulele renditions of classic rock favourites. She wept with longing, to stand on the Pont des Arts, flicking the ash from a Marlboro into the Seine as the sun descends behind the Tour d’Eiffel. She wept for art, knowing that no matter how hard she might try she would never write anything as beautiful as those lines in his letters, breathed effortlessly on to paper in the jagged writing that she knew so well. For a moment she couldn’t breath as sadness ripped through her like a beast with many claws, crushing her lungs with its immense weight. She rocked back and forth, remembering when he hugged her goodbye at the airport and swayed gently, saying, “you can stay another few minutes; you don’t have to go right now,” and regretting her reply: “yes, I do.”

Then, quite suddenly, she stopped. She wiped the remnants of her makeup away from her lower lashes and sniffed heartily, before turning to the blank computer screen. She wondered how to write the story without over-using semicolons.