by Michael Paul Stevens

The snow fell thick and magical in Beaumont Park at precisely the same time another magic was in the process of dissipating. Snow was rare enough to add an extra note of unreality, in other circumstances there to be exquisitely enjoyed but not today.

The beech trees clawed with whitened fingers at the grey slab overhead, behind the park the university watched gloomily; foregone conclusion. Sir Walter clasped his cold bronze hands together and I afforded him company beneath his granite pedestal. It was so quiet I felt as if the world was waiting for the outcome, poised breathless on seats edge, macabre tragic interest. I knew you were watching so I waited, the soft flakes melting on my neck, trying to look cool but knowing you wouldn't show yourself. The postcard you left at the flat with the words 'Baby it's a wild world but I'll always remember you as a child' written in your turquoise pen on the back, splotched from your tears. We had always written each other poetry in that colour; it was like your perfume White Musk, exclusively there just for the two of us. Funny how I felt the need to turn the knife once more in my own heart - I should never have come. My hot tears fell onto the cold white. They were quiet tears, the sort to brush angrily away, unheeded in my inner turmoil. I hadn't known then how much intrigue had been necessary to destroy us, so I blamed you and myself in equal proportions. Everyone I had phoned told me they didn't know where you were. What utter bullshit. I suppose they were all busy convincing you to stay away. Then you phoned.

An old tramp with haunted, worried eyes had sidled up to me. "Did he bite?" He was thinking. Battered shoes with no socks, matted hair, urine stained trousers, coat threadbare. Him with his broken life, I with my broken heart. I gave him a cigarette before he could ask, lit one myself and ignoring his thanks moved off to be alone, just in case - you know. I walked over to the first of the trees flicking the stub away. I leant against the cold trunk, closed my eyes and smelt you, that special you smell. I felt your arms slide around my neck and your soft whisper, your body pressing against mine. Opening my eyes I took a branch, poking out of the snow and wrote my last message to you, large letters in the crystalline white soon to be obscured by the falling flakes. I knew your curiosity would get the better of you. I shouldn't have. I just wanted to hold you one last time. A love junky, just one more shot then I'll stop. And I never did write again did I? Not once in all the following years. God knows how many times I started, but you know how it is.

Walking home I heard the snow muted footsteps behind me and knew it was you. I watched you catch up, the smell of your perfume catching up first. Without a word we took each other’s hand and walked back to the flat. Inside: are you okay? Yeah, I guess so. I saw what you'd written, oh baby I love you. I love you Liz, just where did we go wrong? Nothing to do with what we did, just what we couldn't do. This would be the last time. We held on as tightly as we could to each other and those last fragile moments. Feeling the magic a last time. Our make believe world, loves troubled bubble. I watched you dress, your eyes shiny in the gloom and then without a word you were gone: Forever. I lay back, the smell of you upon me and lit a cigarette. Knowing that something very important in my life had just finished. Another piece of youthful innocence lost.

Michael Stevens, born and raised in Britain studied Theatre, Psychology and finally Law before fleeing England. He now lives with his wife and three children under the shadow of the Bavarian Alps. He divides his time between the more mundane, conventional method of bread winning and writing.