Ficlets

Alfred's (Last?) Visit

It was Alfred, standing in the garden. He had another rose in his hands, this time one of my mother’s prized pink roses. Feeling spiteful, I was glad he’d plucked one of her beloved flowers. Then I realized he didn’t know. He didn’t know I could no longer open my window. He couldn’t visit me anymore. He didn’t know.

I tried telling him. I yelled. But he didn’t hear me. I tried to enunciate, hoping he could read lips. But he was either really bad at reading lips or near-sighted. Either way, he didn’t understand. I balled my hands into fists. I felt so frustrated. I hoped Alfred could see how upset I was.

But Alfred just shrugged his shoulders sadly, laid the rose on the ground and walked back to his horse. He rode away without looking back at me.

I stayed there at the window for a long time, long after he had left.

Much later that night, I lay sleepless in bed, thumbing through a book of poetry. Suddenly, I remembered that tomorrow was Thursday, the day of Alfred’s ball. And I wouldn’t be able to attend.

This story has no comments.