Watching Angels

He watched.

She watched.

He watched for some sign that the woman he knew was coming back to him.

She watched for him to return as he had promised.

Sometimes, their eyes caught as they watched and it was as it used to be.

More often than not they stayed within the cocoon of their parallel desires.

He still listened to her, but his eye, always straying, began to rest on others. It meant nothing.

She withdrew, surrounding herself with light and colour and curves and textures but they meant nothing.

Time passed.

The days were shorter now.

He watched, but no longer saw her.

She watched, but she was ill and frail and she did not think he would know her now.

He watched her, her back to him, the luxurious skirts in the pastels she loved flowing around her skeletal frame in a rush of shimmering satin. Her carefully coiffed head bent towards the beautifully carved and gilded desk. Her hand moved.

"Goodbye, my lonely angel," he heard her say.

He knew she was not talking to him.

She was confined to bed now, still talking, still advising, still watching.

She was watching as her blood and her life gushed forth in a torrential flow, covering her pale figure and softly shaded bed linen with a shocking burst of crimson.

He watched her leave Versailles for the last time, the misery of the day echoing the desolation in his heart and soul.

He stopped caring that day, but cared just enough to pass her last letter to the intended recipient. The misery on the other man's face meant nothing to him.

Nothing mattered to him again.

They warned of disaster. They told him of draining coffers, sullen people.

He shrugged and said, "Apres-moi le deluge."

He lay dying caring nothing that the flood he had predicted was inevitable now. He thought of her as life ebbed low.

His lonely angel.

-end.