- I -
The words had existed in his head. All the time.
He knew they were there, hovering like crows on the fringes of his mind. Waiting for him like a silent threat. Always. Even if he didn't dare say them.
"What is it?" Orlando asked. "You're sitting here pretending to read. But all you do is stare right through the pages. Right through me".
Viggo flinched. Taken by surprise. Tried to smile, but his eyes didn't smile.
"It's nothing," he said. His mouth was dry.
In the light of the afternoon sun the apples on the table glowed like poisoned fruit.
- II -
It was worst at night. Often, he'd wake up, blood pounding in his ears. As if he heard time rushing by.
Only three more weeks.
Beside him Orlando was breathing regularly. But Viggo, suddenly, could hardly breathe any more.
All he could do was kiss Orlando's mouth, roughly, desperately, and Orlando's lips tasted salty. And Orlando would wake up under his hands that were everything but gentle, never defending himself against these nightly assaults. Never asking why.
Fleeting bliss, Orlando's sweet moans of abandon making the pain almost unendurable; the eye of the storm that would soon bring them down.
- III -
It was evening already when he noticed he had hardly worked on the painting. Had only stared at the canvas until the forms began to dissolve into a colourful blur.
It took him some time to realize that the telephone was ringing. That someone was speaking on the answering machine.
Orlando.
"Vig, are you there? "
No, he wasn't. He had ceased to exist the day he realized it was over.
And now New Zealand was no more than a memory. Fading, dissolving into a haze of colours like the brown of Orlando's eyes; swallowed by the maelstrom of time.
