The wind carries many secrets.
As I speak my secret, my words are conveyed to my boyfriend. Some hit his ears, sure, but they also get bound by the breeze, soundwaves waxing uncontrollably, until the frequency diminishes, and they fade like steam on a mirror. But they’re still there, the words, and they’ll never stop moving. What has been done is done.
The sound of the secret, though fleeting to his ears, is not received well, and he counters with sounds of his own. Louder. More forceful. I return them likewise. A storm is brewing, and the lightning is on its way.
And it comes in the shape of a fist.
It forces air out of its way, creating a pocket, an eye in the storm, like it’s fleeing in fear of what’s to come. I cannot move as quickly as the breeze.
More wind still, ejected from my lungs when the hand connects with my cheek. And in my cries of pain. The thunder after the lightning.
I feel my face, and hold the heat of the hit. Red rain runs from my nose as tears erupts from my eyes. He’s huffing and puffing like the breaths of bellows towards a fire.
And then, like an English spring, it changes. Anger turns to shock. To shame. A hurricane turns to the draft of an open door.
But they’re still there, the words. They will always be there. The wind carries many secrets. What has been done is done.
His next words are the last I’ll ever hear from him. But the universe will hold them.
I leave, just as the words did. The room, and him.
I follow my own winds, now.
Shane Rynhart 