The Irony

He placed the rose on the casket. A silent tear drop. More would come. Later.

The world spun. He staggered. When had it been? Two...three days ago? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Now that...

He closed his eyes. She was back. That day. They had parted at the coffee shop. A two-percent French roast venti latte. Never again, he thought. Their last kiss. Her fragrance of jasmine. He could smell it now. She was late, she had said. Her hand drew away. And waved. If only he had held on. He turned the other way. Remember, dinner at eight, she had shouted. Not looking back, he had nodded, not...looking...back. Few more steps. And then the screech of rubber. He had stopped. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. Somehow, he knew.

He opened his eyes. Blurred. Must be the tears. Better closed. Her again. The first time. She had walked into class. Heads turned. And the murmurs. Stunning, someone said. He had felt a rage. He didn't know why. Quite a traffic-stopper, he heard. The irony was sickening. The car hadn't stopped.

He fell. A stroke. No air to breathe. Just silence. Then, a white light. And her.