Firsts

Eleven years ago, it had been a time of firsts: first kiss under the mistletoe, the first shy “I love you”, his first competitive Monopoly match. Their first car purchase and the first bewildering fight about politics.

Finally, a romantic first anniversary, and a proposal out of which came the marriage of two hearts committed to a long, shared walk towards the sunset and near the bioluminescence. The ocean used to glow in neon green, blue, and red. It would dazzle like the stars in the sky.

That was all before the sunrise took leave unexpectedly with a heartless, hiemal bite.

Thereafter it would be a different year of firsts: the first unchaperoned dolour, the first night in unshared sheets, the first anniversary marked in cold and darkness.

Noise pollution, nobody wanted to listen. Shouting was the only discernible chirp. The government did it. Couples did it. Working together and listening—that was a first that never got its moment in the sun. Because a deluge of voluntary deafness had finally silenced the earth’s voice. All balance had been disrupted.

Lying in bed, bewildered anew, she shouted, “You always did like to win, didn’t you?” One last time. She had belatedly grown colder. She had asked her last question.