james_

Another Short Short Story.
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The Telltale Art

He's frantic. Maybe you can't see it, but he is. Sat in a chair and searching frantically. No rushing in this search, It's not something that can be found like that, but it's lost nonetheless. Once again they've fought over a trivial thing already forgotton in the maelstrom of the argument, but this time he's lost it. He's lost the secret key to her heart. He's lost the words that would heal the temporary fracture between them.
Maybe he doesn't feel it any more, he thinks. Could it be that the tempest of their intertwining stories has finally died to a breeze, revealing the emptiness of plot that it hid?
Sweat is being pushed from the pores on his brow, his eyes are tightly shut. He reaches inside, his hands clenching with the effort of thought required to penetrate the alcoholic mucus stifling his emotional muscle, digging through to the bloody, visceral centre. And there he finds it. The calmness he was searching for. The eye of the storm that comes only with the knowledge that it's true. Yes, it's true that he loves her.
"I love you" he says.