It was in this spot with rising stalks of golden barley far from your father’s house that you first gave yourself to me. You were wearing that rose-pattern skirt and when we embraced, I felt the cotton underneath and the soft contours of your leg as it sloped into your delicate calf.
We were embracing. I ran my mouth along your neck, smelled tulips in your black hair. Your hands reached down and without hesitation, I was inside you.
And now we are in our fifties, standing in this same place and it is here that you choose to tell me this. All these years later. It is in this place, watching our children’s children play in the barley. Watching while the sun is setting in an orange sea. This is the moment you choose.
And to this I can say nothing. When the sun is gone and our grandchildren are home, when we’ve retired into our beds and you rolled away from me, leaving the words hanging in our minds, I walked quietly into the study and cut my throat. Had I known how painful the strangulation would be, I would have chosen another way.
By Christopher Grey