A small death

I just, well, I think we, um... I don't, that is I fear we... Have come to the end of our road, so to speak. I think perhaps we'd be better off as just...Friends.
She blinks up into the late morning sun seeing only his outline. His hands are placed nervously on his hips as he shifts from his left foot to his right and back again.

She looks down at her soiled hands, full of dirt and roses. Pink. They're shaking ever so slightly giving away, but only slightly, the state of her heart.

Every break up is a small death to us human folk. It's a fact. We lose something, something ends, abruptly or its opposite. Something dies.
Of course it doesn't have the finality of actual physical death, as there is always a chance, however small, that a break up is only temporary, a momentary lapse in love, as opposed to death of the flesh, which as we all know is pretty final.

Cars whir by, somewhere in a neighbours yard a dog barks, more cars. The sun becomes unbearably warm against her bare skin. She places the picked roses down beside her and lifts the garden scissors from the moist grass and begins again. Concentrating.
He shifts again.
More cars, more dogs.

Another batch of perfectly pink roses. She inhales and finds it rather difficult to exhale, he sighs. She sighs.
She gets up off ground, roses and scissors in hand, wipes her hands on her dirty not-so-blue jeans and begins up the garden path back toward the house, to the front door. She closes it behind her and runs a bath.