DE AFREKENING

EURYDICE

April 7th. Yasmina is not home and you will not talk to me. I tried very hard not to call you. I missed the times we had. The old us. When you were so kind and happy always. Why did you have to change? Pls call me soon. I m running out of oxygen. And on April 1st — before the silence swallowed everything — I wrote you this: Gijs, I chose not to play games or make you chase me with feminine games cos we r older and wiser. All I want is us to be happy together. We have gone through so much the past year together. I can't help believing I was made to love you.

EURYDICE

Withering Blooms Last spring— a shy peony came into your warm, gentle embrace— from the moment you stepped right in, your light shone through her door, to her face— and you showered her with your warm, moist kisses. and blushing, she bloomed, slowly, where you stood. Under your light and warmth, she was in full bloom— and your loving warmth made her feel fresh and beautiful. She did not know how much of her had turned toward you until you chose distance. Cold and abandoned by the sun, The wind shakes her petals and she has nowhere to take refuge. Will her sun return to draw her back to bloom, or leave her there to rot in decay?

GIJSBERT

Hi Eurydice, would be great if you could stop using my phone number for your contractors! ■■

EURYDICE

That is his final word. After the omakase. After the forest. After Keukenhof. After the bat house and the grooves and the oleanders. After six poems written for him in the dark. After Withering Blooms sent into the silence. Please stop using my number for your contractors. That is the last thing the king said to his queen.

YASMINA

Is he still the boss though?

EURYDICE

You are the boss, Yasmina. You have always been the boss.

EURYDICE

He said we had no foundation. Those were his words. He said it standing in this house. On these floors. The floors he filled. With his own hands. On his own knees. He built the ruptures. The disappearances. The accusations — the Bumble he made about me while he was the one checking other women. The visa he twisted into manipulation. The cruelties said in anger. The distance dressed as mental peace. He built every crack between us and then stood in them and called them mine. He called me the master of turning things around. After six poems written for him. After the omakase. After Keukenhof where he said he was in bloom. I am standing in what he called rubble. Look at it. The walls — standing. The grooves — filled. The bat house — mounted. By me. Two attempts. Yasmina holding the ladder. This is not rubble. This was never rubble. This is Lavenderstraat. This is mine. He said we had no foundation. But I am standing on the foundation. Solid beneath my feet. The foundation was always here. He was the one who could not stand on it. I gave him a kingdom. He called it rubble. He abdicated. And left me the crown. The king has abdicated. Only the woman remains. And she is standing. And the house is finished. And the bats will come when they are ready.

GIJSBERT

The rain barrel email. I have read it four times. Yasmina says I am still the boss. Yasmina — who planted tomatoes beside me and called my name a hundred times. The foundation was never the problem. The foundation was there — in her keys in my pocket, her wardrobe making space, six poems in the dark, four hundred euros of omakase trust. I called her the master of turning things around. She was the master of loving completely. Those are not the same thing. I know that now. The sauna is too hot for summer. Tomorrow I will tend the vegetable garden. Something manageable.

EURYDICE

I was made to love him. I believe that still. And I loved him — completely, daily, without reservation. With six poems written in the dark. With my keys and my wardrobe and my omakase. With my hands in his in a forest while my daughter skated and the whole world held its breath. That love was real. That love was enough. It was not enough to save him. That was never my job.