The terror began and ended in her arms - not that there was anything horrific about her, or the arms - it was all in his con-voluted, relationship-analyzing, dis-satisfied brain. Out of those thoughts seeped a labyrinthine fog that wound about and kept her from him, while he, in the center of that density, felt hollow inside. Indeed. Something was missing.

"Why do you look so disturbed," she'd asked him, concerned at the expression clouding his face.
"Nothing, it's nothing at all."
"I don't please you."
"Yes, of course you do," but his reassurance was empty, even to himself. Then he'd fix his gaze on a fleeting image of her in a drinking glass, specters of his own imaginings that were the essence of the girl he wanted, the girl that wasn't there.

It hadn't always been that way. Not before that visit to the art museum. They walked in, hand in hand, harmoniously in love, walked past couples on canvas. First the naturalistic styles. How grand it was walking with her! Then the impressionists. But was it really right? The expressionists. He began not to understand her. Then into the next room, where the implode ended. Surrealists! When he saw into her eyes. she never looked that way, and when he folded her in his embrace none of those parts were ever there.

Story #390

Thanks to all who wrote a story and waited so patiently for me to post mine! I'm really lucky to have such creative visitors.