A Bit Of A Lark (2)

by Maryam in A Land Of Desert And Sun

**This is not a continuation of the other story, but rather another in its own right. I caution you, this may also come across as raving, but... :)**

It is the name. The name.
She stares at it, nearly mesmerized; her heart very literally jumped and is still thudding at the familiar letters stringed together.
THE name. HIS name.
It had been so long...
But could it really be - him? She doesn't know.
Trembling, she stretches out a hand; she scarcely knows what she is doing, but unwaveringly, her hand darts out and snatches the letter. Her breath coming in gasps, she steadies herself.
It couldn't be HIM. Perhaps his parents. Everyone named '-----' could not be -
Him.
So hah. She would not fall into fantasies about how it would feel - she would not fall into a self-induced state of anticipation, she would coolly and calmly OPEN it, see it, and when seeing the meaningless words, meaningless to her, inside it, she would equally coolly and calmly chuck it over her shoulder into the rubbish where it belonged.

In spite of herself, her breath quickens. Her hands, her fingers shake, making it hard to open, hard to grasp it. But she does it in the end. Losing her composure, she opens it and scans the words greedily; it takes several seconds before it all drives down.
Disappointment, however much she prepared herself for it, is etched into her face. It speaks out of every feature as she slowly refolds it.
She stands, there, just as she is, in the middle of the sunny road, and for a moment, her face is invisible behind the fringe of her hair.
Then she straightens. A new air of resolve envelopes her, and with a single vindictive outburst of deserved fury she crumples the paper in her hand. Then, she goes limp. A tear, very nearly unseen, slides down the bridge of her nose, lingers in the corner of her lip, and finally drops into the dust of the road.
Her hand drops to her side; the crumbled paper resides in her hand, loosely, as it is. She makes a half-hearted movement to toss it behind her, but somehow even this is refused, and it stays.
She turns, and slowly, shoulders weary, head down, she walks slowly, thoughtfully, back to the house which beckons to her. In the light of the sun, the paper can still be seen as it is, lodged irrevocably in her hand.