On a small balcony with an endless view sat two people with a view of an ending.
She finally confessed, ‘I like a plan. Some order. To know what’s around the corner. I’m allergic to uncertainty – to sudden changes.’
He countered, ‘I just want things to be fun! I can’t abide feeling obliged!’
‘But I need an anchor. A tie,’ she said.
‘Yes, but I’m a balloon!’
Her thoughts faltered, ‘My sharp pin of certainty would burst his balloon. Can he and I be in the same room? A pin. A balloon. Couldn’t we learn to float together? Me, tied securely, on a longish string, to his balloon?’
‘It could be lovely, couldn’t it?’ she whispered.
‘Sorry?…What did you say?
She kept her thoughts to herself, ‘I’m not sharp. Not really. I’m soft and round and squishy at times. I’m a jelly. Moulded to sit straight and orderly. And yet I wobble if prodded. I melt in the heat. I did melt in the heat. A beautifully formed jelly melted into liquid – back to its original, unimaginative form. No beauty. No use. Just water, water, everywhere. Water stained with red that seeped into his life, filling his balloon, weighing him down…’
He interrupted her silent musings, ‘Will we meet again tomorrow…?’ A question with a hint of trapped desperation – no note of invitation.
She was resolved. ‘No, let’s have a break tomorrow. We’re both tired.’
She was letting him go – for a solo flight. She was trusting he’d come back. That he’d realise she gave him some of the life and breath that filled his balloon so he could fly.
But it was a risk.
‘I could be left. Alone. A rusty pin in a puddle of melted jelly.’