of the car. She hovered in the car doorway staring fixedly at the tragic, broken flowers. One of the flowers lay painfully sombre, the petals now dirtied and crooked, the stem distorted and bent; however, it remained bewitching in beauty under her forgiving gaze of stricken passivity. I had once before seen her eyes that way, only about a month before, during a phosphorescently-black night.The lively silence of the night was penetrated by the barks of the neighbour’s three dogs.My hand lay on my wife’s chilly shoulder.Her features were sleepily stiff and wore an unchangeable expression of mild defeat. She was barely disturbed by a breath. I observed the garden curiously from the window. The scarlet poppies bristled in the hungry wind. The white blossom on the tree at the end of the garden was captured by a gust and stole away upwards through the night, towards the sky.
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