The wind. Blind-sides, pushes, pulls. It knows. Fiona. It plies, shoves, gusts, topples. I get over, it comes again, again. A zephyr at youth, a guide, a nudge, a hint. Maturity has energised, strengthened, resolved. Move me from my path, move me from its desire. To defeat. To squander, to lay waste. To summon weakness, vulnerability, inner failing, loss.
Fiona unaware. Waits, a glass in hand, a Netflix, simple pleasure. Anticipatory waiting. Love. Senses. Tingles. Yet the forces I endure are nothing to her. Nothing. Why? There's a pause. There's a slight danger. Time. And time touches her heart, slightly. Slightly aware of the glass, the next episode, the laugh, the cry. Touches. Time touches.
While I, tormented, am coming, my Fiona!
I am. I am. Slayed, rise up, slayed, rise up, one step, two steps, three. Door in sight, light in sight, my prize. A text. Ping! Cannot answer, my fibre answers, that is enough. Four.
Under your door there is a light, a strong light, the beacon of desire. It comes closer, the battering worsens. Slip. slide, slosh, downwards. Scrabble, scrape, scratch upwards. Eventually.
One last side-swipe.
There you are, I was worried. For a moment. Look at the trees! Light under the door, widens and lengthens and warmth hits me. This time I conquered, this time. Step inside, all is quiet. Fiona. Hands me a glass, wine to the brim. The door shuts. Shuts out the oppressor. Door closed so gently by Fiona I wonder if, if, if? Silence. As if. As if there were nothing, a stroll from the station to the chalet.
I know. I know. This is not the last sighing of the breeze. Sighing to malevolence. Grown up together. I win again. I always do. But I'm again older.