Why did she, he had asked.
Why had she ignored him, then proclaimed she hadn’t forgotten – then disappear again?
Why was ten days then “a long time”, and ten months of silence today unworthy of rumination?
Why must she climb out of bed before the sun was in the skies? Why did she sleep before the streets grew silent? Why had she trimmed her hair? Why did she let it grow out again? Why? Why.
It wasn’t a question, though, that he had forgotten to ask –
Why did he dwell on the whispers he knew were a mere string of perfidious expressions?
Why was he fixating on dates that could never materialise?
Why had he conditioned his mind to accept all her flippancy?
Exhausted by his own thoughts, he threw in the towel. Only to pick it right up again as a fragment of memory flashed before him.