I went to war for what we had; you never even laced your boots.
N.R. Shepherd
Salt-soured eyes squinted against the computer monitor brightness, and leaning back into his chair he squeezed them tightly to stop the involuntary tears from welling up.
Bags had formed above hollow cheekbones, a once smiling face, drooped, showing lips darkened from excessive chain smoking.
Dregs of the third cup of coffee stained the bottom of his mug, and crumbs of a half eaten sandwich littered a desk, cluttered with paper and a host of Whatnots strewn about.
Wrinkles lined his plain shirt, and the vest he wore over it, covered the singe marks from a borrowed iron. The tie was loosened instead of dapperly done, not out of style, rather comfort, it eased the nausea he constantly felt.
Disheveled, untidy, unkempt, sleep had disowned him. He’d run out of pills weeks ago, and the alcohol made him bitter, despondent and resentful.
An email flashed on the monitor in front of him, a reminder of a colleagues anniversary today. He’d planned to get something nice initially. A pair of cufflinks, or a cigar cutter, those little gilded things that came in stirling silver…instead, while rummaging through old boxes in his storage room over the weekend, looking for a screwdriver, had discovered an unopened whiskey flask; a gift from his wedding day, still in pristine condition.
Emptying half of what he’d been drinking into it, he wrapped it up in cellophane, adding in a tied bow for good measure.
His colleague’s name has been hastily written, almost as an afterthought.
The “gift” was in and amongst the mess on his desk. He’d even used the same ribbon.
‘No one will know.’ He thought. Not that he gave a damn. Those days of caring were long gone.
That flask hadn’t been the only thing he’d found. There were a lot of boxes. Many with old magazines, trinkets collected from travel, spare blankets, and unused saucepans.
When the bitch left, she hadn’t even bothered with sorting through; Just packed what she could in a small suitcase, and along with his car, half his bank account and all his hopes and dreams, had bid him adieu.
The last real image he could recall – was her waving ‘go fuck yourself’ in the rearview.
The only other images he had of her, was in the album he’d found under the flask.
It was dated 7 years prior, and flipping though the pages, each photo made it seem only days had passed.
Sunsets on the beach.
The hiking trip they’d took once where after climbing the summit of a peak that allowed them to see meandering rivers to the north, and vast plains to the east.
There was the one at his grandparents home. Taken in front of Lean-to shacks made of Pandanus leaf and forest wood. His bubu standing proudly with the two of them smiling on either side.
That was when life was so much easier.
Before the late night texts, before the long hours at work, or the nights out.
When all he’d known was that he loved her.
He looked at a handful more photos.
‘Good memories. I’ll burn them when I have the chance.’
…
He was roused from his brooding by a timid knock on his open door.
A short series of raps and an intern stood, one of the myriad the company had insisted on recruiting as part of their give-back-to-community drive. He called it cheap labor.
“Sir, we will be starting soon, I’ve been advised to … advise you”.
He nodded in response.
The Intern stood a moment; despite his age, bloodshot eyes and somewhat thinner build, he was still a handsome man. She’d jumped at the opportunity to walk his way.
He looked her way.
“I know…I’ll be there” he snapped, then watching her shoulders deflate visibly, he immediately felt regret, and softened his tone.
“Thank you” he smiled “What is your name?”
“Amara” She smiled politely and left.
A fleeting thought occurred…followed by a pang of guilt.
He sighed. Picking up the wrapped flask, he donned a jacket and slid his chair back into place. It caused a layer of paper to cascade sideways, revealing a small frame of a smiling couple.
He stared at it a moment. Her eyes. Her hair. That nose she hated. And the smile that melted his heart.
“I’ll burn that too” he said, closing the door behind him.