The night before it happens,
he brings me flowers.
Irises, pale purple center
framed by deep violet.
My favorites.
It is no special occasion,
the gesture all the more
thoughtful
because of it.
As I pull down a vase,
he stands behind and
wraps his arms around me,
kisses my neck softly.
I smile.

We are young,
but I know I have found
the man with which
I will spend my life.
When I turn, he is looking
through me,
his bright eyes
far, far away.
Determination on his handsome face.
He is thinking of something,
but before I ask the spell
b r e a k s.
He focuses on my face,
touches his lips to mine,
whispers, "I love you."
My curiosity flits away,
as easily as paper on a
breath of wind.
"I love you too."
"Always?" he questions,
urgency in his tone.
"Always," I echo and frown.
A relieved sigh escapes him.
I again begin to ask
what is on his mind, but
stop myself.
If it is important,
he will tell me.
He trusts me, and I him.
But as I prepare dinner,
his question haunts my thoughts.
A nightmare lurking at the edges
of a dream.
***
It's lunch break the next day.
I'm in a small café,
the walls cheerful colors,
each table unique.
Mine is painted like the night sky.
The black base dotted with
little stars;
closer, you can see
tiny rainbows in each one.
I like how
something you think you know
still holds surprises.

I am reading the newspaper
when the café owner turns up
the volume on the TV,
ashen-faced.
When I look, I become stone.
My brain cannot process what
my senses are sending it.
I catch only random phrases
as the reporter speaks,
as if from far away.

"53 dead and
dozens more wounded . . ."

And there,
between the corpses and
a building billowing smoke,
is a picture of him, being led away
in handcuffs.
His lips twist in a smirk,
an expression I've never seen.
I would know his face anywhere.
I know him.
I love him.
But as the facts continue,
my stomach twists.
I am being stabbed
and he wields the blade.
I shatter.
***
The police leave the apartment
late that evening.
They can tell I didn't know,
that I am shocked,
more than anyone else.
They leave me staring at a case,
empty now, perfect for
a gun and ammunition.
They told me they have found
the place where he developed the bomb:
a room in the building where
he worked.
They asked me how
I couldn't have known,
couldn't have sensed it,
but I have no answer.

I am in a fog,
drifting in a
thin sense of unreality.
My hands shake as I
pick up the vase,
the one filled with irises.

The vase
s h a t t e r s
when it hits the wall.
Irises slide to the floor,
one by one.
Shards of glass in a glistening,
deadly halo.
A mirror image, I slump to the floor,
lean against the cupboard.
My hands cover my face and
without realizing it
I am sobbing.
The tears flow through my fingers.
Plip.
Plop.
They touch the floor.
Each drop is one of blood.

I open my eyes and
the victims' blood
covers my hands.
My gaze falls on the irises,
their petals askew,
lying broken on the tile.
Like me.

I feel the touch of his lips
on my skin.
I feel the butterflies in my stomach
from every time
he kissed me.
I cannot understand.
Am I insane too?
"53 dead and
dozens more wounded . . ."

I pick up an iris, the stem
bent precariously.
It is fragile; one wrong move
and it will snap.
I wonder what snapped him.
When.
And how I had not seen it.

My mind circles
round and round,
unable to make sense of this
permanent alteration of
my world.
I clean up the glass,
then the flowers.
It is the last iris that cuts me.
A piece of glass,
embedded in the stem,
pierces my skin.
A ruby oozes to the surface
then falls.
My blood joining that of the
victims.
***
Two days later, I'm allowed
to visit him.
I need to see him, need the sight
to jar me from this
haze I'm living in.

He is in the room when I enter.
A room of glass,
guards on every side.
He sits calmly, as if he is
at home.
With me.
He rises as I approach,
wanting to touch me,
embrace me, I am sure.
And for an instant,
I can believe the past days
were an illusion,
that this is just the man
I fell in love with.
But then a guard steps forward,
and I remember.
I brace myself.
"53 dead and
dozens more wounded . . ."

I have heard the explanations
for his actions,
but they do not make me
understand.
We sit.

"Why?" I choke.

A manic gleam enters his eyes.
Suddenly, I don't recognize him
at all.
Clang.
The chair topples back.
I slide the engagement ring
from my finger.
It leaves a pale circle.

He stares at the ring,
hurt.
How can this hurt him
when the rest did not?

"You said you would love me,
always."

His eyes are misty.
I know I will always love
the man I once knew,
the one who
made me laugh
when I didn't want to,
who brought me flowers for
no other reason than
to show he cared.
But he is not that man;
he is far more complicated.
A flickering diamond
with countless facets.
And he will haunt my steps
for life.

"53 dead and
dozens more wounded,"
I whisper.

There is no remorse.

The ring drops to
the table.
Tears form a new fog,
but colors shine through,
like the rainbows painted in
the stars.
I leave.
***
There's a flower shop
as I walk home.
Among the
pinks,
greens,
reds,
oranges,
there is purple.
Irises.
And I collapse into myself.
But I refuse to give in to
the blackness.
Hands shake but
I stay awake now.

The store bell
pings.
53 irises fill
my arms.