The secret is laid carefully, over the Formica topped, tea stained canteen table; like dew drops laid early morning on the sleeping grass. It’s spoken softly, delicately, even lovingly. The secret; it’s brutal. Traverses the tunnels of the ear, reverberating on the hard white bones and melting into soft pink flesh. Its sweet brutality soaks into the crumbs of bread on his plate, making it toxic. Contaminated. Useless, like wilted flowers on a hot day in June.

The secret giver and the secret taker. Bound by words spoken. Seated face to face on hard wooden chairs, with the world dissolving into a murky shade of red around them. Red, of love and blood; result of the mistakes of love. Words unspoken hang in the air, to be spoken later. Or not; because to never speak again is a bliss people understand only when they are faced with utter wordlessness. Utter callousness.

She looks into his eyes. Straight. There’s no regret. No remorse. The unspeakable said. It’s the moment before everything crashes onto the ground; and the moment before the moment before. All those moments before that moment, merged into one silent eternity. And looming ahead is a future of cold nights. 

A fly sits on the crumb of bread, sucking on its stale uselessness. Oblivious to the secret and its dangers. Oblivious to the silent struggle of people; to the smells and garbage of the universe. He swats the fly away. The fly flies away, flying away with the poisons of the secret in its intestines. Still oblivious.

Then he gets up to leave. She gets up because he gets up. Two people united, only in the act of standing up. Only for two seconds of purpose.  Time stands still. Lives stand still. Around the secret, everything revolves at breakneck speed. Ignoring this, he turns to go home; her face is passive.

The fly settles on a fresh piece of bread.