Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went.
And when all was said and done, Victoria could not accept that it was over. That she would not see him again, that she would not kiss and be kissed, that the flowers would blacken and crumble in the vase and all would be extinguished. She trailed listlessly up and down the sides of the river as dusk darkened to night and warm cooled to cold. The scent of the water touching the air – so crisp and refreshing – became piercingly hostile and pungent. Surrounding her in swirls, she was sickened by the heady desperation of her own nostalgia for what had been, what could have been and what now could never be.