It began with the acknowledgement they were wrong. That all assumptions made and judgements called were flawed and skewed. While these new facts began to form, she made an attempt to speak. Someone had to unravel the moment, and their marriage, in words. To end what had begun. To break it all apart. To start at the beginning.

He was waiting. Someone had to do it.

They were sitting on board the King Harry Ferry, a day trip to St. Mawes behind them. Sand still stuck between her toes, the past wedged between them like a granite defence, keeping the breakers at bay. Two seascapes on canvas, bound for their London living room, were held tightly in bubble wrap on the back seat. Looking out of the windscreen, she stared blankly ahead, words arranging themselves logically in her mind. He tapped a hand on the steering wheel, smiling back at a kid grinning madly at them from the car in front. The day was almost over, evening light streamed from a cloud mass, bestowing an almost otherworldly air upon the scene. He watched as two seagulls flew across the pale blue depths, each helping the other speed and dip and float toward home. He clicked the radio on and clicked it off again, registering only static. White noise.

Running a hand through his hair, he watched the kid in front stick out his tongue and he mimicked the action. It felt good to pull a face; he hadn't stuck his tongue out in years. He was tempted to turn and face her, contort his features wildly. She would throw her head back and laugh; they'd turn on some music. He'd pull her towards him and kiss the words right out of her mouth. But he didn't. She was speaking now, waves of sound without meaning, a recording on a never-ending loop. He became caught up in its rhythms and cadences, losing track as the ferry began to move - her voice clamouring for attention above the clattering chains being dragged from the seabed. The ferry made its slow progress toward a distant shoreline, the road ahead coming clearer into view.

He recalled running along a beach toward his mother's waiting arms, how she had held a towel open for him, wrapping him so tight he couldn't move, laughing at his chattering coldness. 'Isn't it marvellous', she'd whispered in his ear, 'It's you and me now', and held him close as though he would break.

--It's you and me, she said. And he heard her, finally.
He nodded, staring ahead. Fixing his expression and holding it still, not wishing to see the same look hanging on her face, like a mask.
--It's the way we are, together. If we had known, it would never have'¦we would never...
She stopped abruptly.
--Never, he thought. And turned then to see the vapour trails left by two passing planes, streaking across the evening sky, like scars.

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...