Too Late

By: Sarah C.

6/17/98

He remembers the smell of her chestnut hair, like the scent of wild flowers after a spring rain. Inhaling her sweet aroma as he clung to her tall, slender body in an embrace before he would depart. She felt stiff in his arms.

He felt the rose of a girl enveloped in his embrace, crumbling away as if her entire being were suddenly evaporating. He wanted to catch the pieces of her wilted heart before they fluttered to stay forever on the cold, harsh concrete below, but he could not. He had to leave, but the smell of her long hair was beginning to do strange things to him, making him forget why he could not stay, why it would never work.

He wonders now if she has begun to cry, if her salty tears were beginning to dampen his shirt. She felt stiff in his arms. He did not want to think about that right now, his last chance to be near her. He knew that one he pulled away from this girl it would be impossible to ever return. She would regard him after this with untrusting eyes, the same ones that had once been an amazing, sparkling blue-green. She felt stiff in his arms.

She tried to pull away. He would not let her. It was almost impossible now to leave. Feeling as if he were making a horrible mistake. He was trying so hard to forget how stiff she felt. She was so close, yet she felt a million miles away, as if she were a passer-by observing a sad situation.

He dropped his arms, defeated. She took a decisive step back, as if being near him after this repulsed her. And those eyes, so withdrawn and resolute. He turned and began to walk away, noticed the dryness of his plaid shirt, glanced back at her. Her eyes were dry. And he could not think of a single reason why he had left, a mistake.