It's in the Details

The hole wasn’t big enough.

This place, drenched with the quiet scent of flowers, is where he always wanted it to be. Every time, he had tried to make it here.

Her hand grazed his neck, and his breath hitched.
It was cold.

He couldn’t remember how it had started with her. He knew it was here. Perhaps that’s why.

He picked up the shovel and wiped his brow, staining it red.
The smell of copper overrode every sense.

Like falling glass, She laughed,
“It’s not always about the details, y’know.”

He laughed too, like sandpaper on gravel.
He thought about how they would never match.

Exactly 72 inches. It had to be exactly 72 inches.

She took the paintbrush from his hand and shook Her head. His hand was shaking in frustration. The colors of the brush matched the splatter of paint of Her Apron. Cerulean and Maroon. She placed Her warm hand on his back and danced with the brush on the wood.

“Just focus of the broad strokes, see?”

The colors blurred.

Didn’t She remember how that turned out last time?

How it turned out every time?

Dirt flew over his head and rained over the flowers. 72 inches. Broad strokes.
She only ever thought about the broad strokes.

He started again on the legs of the table. The flowers that he had carved in weren’t in full bloom, he had decided. He must start again.

He lost count of how many time he threw out those table legs. Not intricate enough. Too many vines. The flowers looked more like hydrangeas than zinnias. So many reasons they were incomplete.

The girl bit on her lip, watching from afar.
Twelve times.

Blood bloomed from the freshly cut wound.

This wasn’t something he could start over.

Her eyes were always so delicate. Everything about Her was wispy.
But him. His hands were stocky and callused. They grated upon Her soft skin.

He cried at night thinking about it. She would place Her arms around him.
She would look at him with those delicate eyes, and he would crumble.

So different.

Like paper, She slipped right in.
A perfect fit.

They weren’t a perfect fit.

She loved that.

He took Her soft hand, like a flower petal.
His flower.

He didn’t know how to feel.

The dying sun matched the red stained on the crumpled white roses around them.
He had broken them, hadn’t he?
Broken Her.
The dirt covered those delicate eyes, still open to the world.

His eyes were red and puffy again.
They were before it started too.

He had warned Her.

His face was in his hands, doing its best to stop another oncoming flow of tears.
A faucet that wouldn’t turn off.
“We will never compliment each other., My Flower”

She had kissed him on the neck and whispered.
“I disagree.”

The air was as warm as Her.

So deep into the earth, and She was still caked on his hands and memories.
Was she here for the same thing?
Maybe this was how it was always going to end.

Was this his fault or Hers?
The knife was held so close to his chest when She placed Her hands on the blade.
He hadn’t seen her here before.
Back then he thought that the sickly sweet smell of the flowers that permeated the air would overpower the sickening metallic tang.

Occasionally, he did get these details wrong.

He placed flowers on the freshly dug earth and picked up his shovel.
And the knife.
At least now they would finally match.

And he started on the second grave.