She sits on a bench, thinking of him. She suppresses her grief as a mild breeze traces the contours of her face, reminding her of his touch. “I’m not giving in. I’m stronger than this,” she whispers, while the traffic moves on the bridge overhead, the cacophonous roar of engines and horns evoking some memory she thought she’d burnt, until emotion and thinking crescendo and embrace at an apogee of shattered whys, and broken hows. “Please…” she says, and then heaves. “Ple… as… e…” she chokes, and something wild and unmanageable explodes within, turning everything without monochrome while she weeps.
Image © Roger Bultot
Just a Writer 
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