He and I - reworking of a story from a previous prompt

He and I

            We meet here. We always meet here. Under the orange tree in the circle, in the middle of town. It’s safe to meet here. No one knows that he and I meet here. Our tree is in the corner of the circle. I know how that sounds. Circle’s don’t have corners. But in this world, in the world where there is no one but him and me, me and him, there is just this one corner. We made it ours. The orange tree bares the names of many young lovers that came before us. We know that. Lovers that most likely made promises to one another. Most of those promises were never kept or forgotten about. We were going to be different, he and I. Our love was going to be different. It was going to last forever. We knew that. He and I.         

            There were days when we would sneak out. We were just sixteen when we first me. He and I. We met under this orange tree. I was sitting, reading a book on one side. He was sitting and writing on the opposite side. We made love for the first time under the orange tree. Late at night when no one was around. We snuck out. He and I. He picked me up in his father’s beat up truck. It was raining. It wasn’t the most comfortable place we had ever made love. But it was the most special place. This was our place. It smelled of oranges – it was perfect. We were perfect. He and I.

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            Today, it’s windy. And as I close my eyes and feel the breeze caress my face, smell the fresh cut grass, and the chlorine from the fountain – I know this is the place we belong. He and I. This is where we will stay. He and I. But there may be no coming back after. He’s going to fight a war that is not his to fight. It isn’t his battle. It shouldn’t be his battle. He shouldn’t be leaving. But he is.

            He won’t even tell me what is going on. He just wanted me to meet him here one last time before he leaves. I hate him for leaving. It’s the first time I have ever hated him. But I do. I love him and I hate him. I never knew that was possible until this very moment.

            A monarch butterfly flies around me. She circles me. Leaves. Come back. Leaves again. I name her, Madam Butterfly. She deserves a name. I laugh as she lands on my shoulder. Like she has a secret that is only for me. Does she have a secret for me? I ask her. She floats off. I make a wish. I wish for the unwishable. I wish that the wishes we made – he and I – when we carved our initials in our tree were to come true. They have to come true. Don’t they?

            I look at my watch. He’s late. He’s never late. I call. Voicemail. Did he just leave? Did he just leave and not tell me? No. No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? No. No he would not. I leave him a message. He could be stuck in traffic.

            Sirens. Where are they coming from? I hear them. But I can’t tell which way they are coming from. They get closer. Closer. They enter the circle and go through the roundabout. There’s a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach that I cannot place. I call him again. No answer. Ambulance. The sirens are so deafening, I have to cover my ears. My eyes tear for reasons I cannot fathom. Is it because of the noise? Can my ears just not take the noise? Can my eyes just  not take the sun light shining down on me today? It’s hot. For winter.

            Madam Butterfly floats by me again. This time frantically. Like she has a message for me. It’s been twelve minutes since the firemen and the ambulance have driven off. Twenty minutes since he was supposed to be here. Madam Butterfly lands on my shoulder. She does not move. I try to nudge her. Still, she does not move. I gently touch her again and her lifeless body falls from my shoulder onto the grass.

            My phone rings. It’s his father. Something is wrong.

            “Hello?”

            “You need to come to the house, sweetie.”

            “Why?”

            “Please. Get here as fast as you can.”

I feel the breath escape from my lungs. Like I was punched in the gut. It felt like one half of my heart stopped pumping blood into my body.

            I fell to the ground. I picked up Madam Butterfly. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him and I. We were supposed to grow old together. He and I.

            He decided that he would rather die than to be away from me. He hung himself in his bathroom. He had a not in his hand addressed to me. It smelled of oranges.