𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘱 , 𝘣 .

ONE BY ONE THE FLOWERS IN MARY ALICE’S GARDEN HAD WITHERED,     and with each petal that fell to its demise against the soil that had once nurtured it,   a fragment of your light was stolen.     again and again,   until you,   like the once fruitful yard adjacent to your own,   became dreary and dull.     life had been running on autopilot for so long   -   fulfilling an array of tasks to complete each day for husband,   children,   home.     the script in which you lead your life gone undisrupted until the day you moved onto that lane,   when you set eyes on her.     the infatuation had started out innocent enough :   with a desire to impress,   to bring forth a smile to her lips.     wildly had it grown into something far more detrimental to your sanity.     her eyes becoming the first you seek out in a crowded room   -   look at me,   look at me,   look at me   -   a silent prayer,   desperate to draw her attention,   her acknowledgement.     for years this had continued :   stolen glances,   fingers meeting at hand offs,   hips brushing unnecessarily past one another.     often left wondering if it was only you who incited these touches.     all until that night.     you still haven’t decided if that marked the day you fell from grace,   or when you finally had practiced the purest form of devotion.

HOW LONG CAN A PRECIOUS MEMORY BE NURSED ?     at what point will it no longer spark a chemical reaction of emotions,   ranging from sorrow to elation ?     she has kept them bottled up all this time,   and the cork is starting to erode.     that night had been branded into her mind,   and she was cursed with the inability to stop its reenactment every night she laid her head to rest.     she can still feel the warm breath against her cheeks,   see the dilation of arousal in mary alice’s eyes,     and taste the red tang of wine against her tongue.      it is that millisecond that she often replays,   when what they had just done hadn’t properly registered   -   before logic has finally come to reclaim them.     in that moment,   bree remembers thinking that for the first time in her entire adult life   ‘ this is what happiness is supposed to feel like ’.     she almost let those words escape,   almost gutted herself to spill the words that had been swallowed for so long   …     just leave !     its shrill cry rings in her ears.     it is then that the fantasy ends,   and she is left with nothing but grief and a damp pillowcase.