A to Z Honesty - M is for Missing

"I miss him so much."


I hold the bartender's shaggy head in a loose embrace and stroke the back of his head. He acquiesces to my hollow need, the crook of his supplicant neck folded against the shelter of my breast.


I say the words as individuals, with revered emphasis, their meaning as rocky true as rip tides hissing on distant shores where my baby walks without me.


This funky seaside diner is the haunt of our glory days. Lime-freshed bottles of Corona froth these memories of passion-fuelled debates on politics, world hunger and the environment; we knew everything, we did everything, we loved everything. Mostly, though, I loved you.


How could I not.


I am here looking for something that no longer exists. The restaurant is full of university students and young workings, arguing about all the things we did. Nothing is new but everything is changed. Amongst their fevered energy my own self dissipates, like mist, like dust. The bartender, our old friend, as staid as truth, understands.


He bends his head, sorrow radiates from my fingertips; compassion becomes our ritual, the communion of lonely souls.