She never spoke of him. It was as though he had never existed. Blanked out like a barrier. Often he would ask of him, had she heard? He was in the papers, through no malice, nor ignorance. Just asking. Only to be greeted with a subtle diversion or a slight raise of the eye. A taboo subject.
For whilst he held her love, he knew he never held her heart.
That was taken decades ago by another. Whilst he grew ever stronger, she ever supporting, withered and lost herself. Simply absorbed. Then after a time, drained, surplus, discarded. Left alone with her thoughts of why, why not and woe be gone. That was when he found her again. Lost inside herself, alone. So often he had seen the way she followed him giving her all. Whilst painfully he watched him, take, take her all and from others. Whilst she believed he was hers. His next mark, ******* the life out of them in parallel to her. They got together in an accident for her security, for him everything. Then one day on the train he saw he was to be married. He closed the paper folded it and tucked it under my arm. I always placed it on the desk in the hall for her to read later. He called out to her. But there was no answer. In the kitchen simply a note. "Thankyou and goodbye" She had learnt her craft well.
An attempt at flash writting from a headline or press piece.