By Neil Weiner (June 2025)
I sit in the middle of a meadow that looks too perfect to be real. Lush, rolling green cradling me in the earth’s warm embrace. Wildflowers dance around me in careless abundance. Poppies, bluebells, golden tufts of yarrow. Each one swaying to the rhythm of the breeze. A brook nearby murmurs its endless secrets, the water skipping over smooth stones singing the rites of Spring.
Above, the sky is a cathedral of sapphire, the sun painting the meadow with dappled light. Golden spears flickering through tall grass, kissing my skin with gentle heat. I lean forward and pluck a daisy. I tear off a petal.
She loves me.
She must.
We meet at Loreen’s party. Her silhouette framed by the flickering lights, so petite and impossibly poised. She moves with feline grace, the sway of her hips timed to the pulse of the room. Her Irish green eyes meet mine, and I forget how to breathe.
That hair. Auburn fire spun into motion, cascading behind her, flowing with every animated gesture, every laugh, every tossed-back comment. She looks my way, and in that instant—snap—I am voltage. Lightning in human form. The music fades, the crowd dissolves, even my name feels irrelevant.
We connect in that magnetic hush between heartbeats.
***
The air turns cold. I put on my fur-lined jacket. Staring at the daisy for a moment, I rip off the next leaf.
She love me not.
How could she?
Our first date—Patricia’s Wine Bar. One of those sleek, candlelit places tucked into a gentrifying alleyway, all reclaimed wood and live jazz. We talk for hours, or maybe it was just minutes stretched by infatuation. Glasses of pinot disappear. I make her laugh. God, that laugh. Gives me goosebumps. And when I walk her home, I remember the surprise of her fingers slipping into mine, light and deliberate.
Then her apartment. Her invitation. Her body warm against mine. Wild, primal. It isn’t about sex. It’s the endless kisses, the way our mouths find rhythm older than speech, older than thought.
Then morning comes. Coffee in mismatched mugs. Sunlight on bare skin.
And then, the blow.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I do situationships.’” A pause. “Nothing serious.”
Situationship?
What is that? A placeholder? A shared orbit with no gravity? Dating. Sex. Connection. But no leash. No promises. No path forward. Intimacy without architecture.
An emotional clearing in a jungle, soft grass underfoot, a patch of sunlight and then the creeping vines. Thick, choking vines of silence, of detachment, of everything unsaid.
I can’t breathe.
***
Was it real? Any of it? Or did I just dream the way her fingertips lingered on my cheek like a promise?
And still, beneath the ache, there’s a quiet, steady glow. Hope. A wanting for one more night in that sun-dappled clearing.
Even if the vines are closing in, even if doubt whispers, I hold fast.
I stare at the daisy’s petals and pluck another. The clouds drift apart, and sunlight warms my hands.
She loves me.
Of course she does.
How could she not?
We’re there again—tucked away in a rustic cabin, the kind that smells of pine needles and salt-kissed wood. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting amber light across her face. Outside, the surf drums a steady rhythm, echoing the thrum of my heart. We read. We talk. She laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. And then she looks at me—like I’m the only story the world ever needed.
She says it.
“I love you.”
And I believe her.
Later, we walk the shoreline in silence, our fingers brushing now and then like hesitant waves testing the shore. Overhead, an eagle cuts across the silver-lit sky, a furry animal in her beak. She vanishes into a pine, where eager cries greet her return. A nest. A home. A future.
I feel the words rising, foolish and full-hearted.
That I want that. With her.
That I love children. That I imagine our daughter with her eyes, our son with her passion. That I already see their drawings taped to the cabin walls.
But I hold back. Out of reverence, not fear. Magic as delicate as blown glass. This moonlit night, the hush between waves. Her hand in mine. It’s sacred.
I say nothing. Just walk beside her as the waves retreat taking my secret in the depths.
***
I feel it before I see it—the air shifting. The golden warmth of sunlight vanishes as foreboding clouds drag across the sky. A storm is coming. The question isn’t whether I should wear my raincoat, it’s whether I should be sitting in this field anymore.
The field, once a sunlit paradise, dims under gathering shadow. The wildflowers bow their heads as if they know what’s coming. I clutch the daisy in my hand. Without thinking, I squeeze. Petals crumble in my fist. The stem drops to the ground like a sentence left unfinished.
Halfway to the car, my phone buzzes.
A text from her. “Meet me at The Rendezvous.”
No explanation. Not even the usual cute emoji. Just like her lately.
The rain is coming in sideways, lashing at the windshield. The wipers groan with every sweep, leaving oily streaks where the blades have worn thin. I squint through smudged glass, the world beyond warping into a blur of shadows and headlights.
I park behind the coffee shop, the rain distorting the world into a haze of grays. The car is cocoon of stillness where my thoughts echo.
Do I walk in with a casual smile, pretending everything’s fine? Or do I wear the concern that’s been gnawing at me for weeks? I already know the answer. I’ve always known. The vise around my head, the ache in my chest, they’re not new. They’re the body’s way of remembering, of warning. I read in some book that the body keeps score with a physical imprint. My body knows what’s coming, even if my mind resists.
It’s the bottom of the ninth inning. The home team is down, two outs, no one on base. As a kid, I cherished the drama of baseball—the suspense, the hope. But now, as an adult, I see futility. The game’s outcome feels inevitable, the suspense a cruel joke.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to step up to the plate, even if I already know the game’s lost.
I adopt a breezy manner and walk in as if everything is okay. I sit across from her, noting the two steaming mugs of chamomile tea and the jar of daisies on the table. A soothing tea to calm the situation.
She delivers the classic trite line: “It’s not you, it’s me.” I barely hear the rest. Something about finding her way by herself and how wonderful I’ve been. Most of her words blur together, reminiscent of the muted trombone sound when adults speak in those Peanuts cartoons: wah wah wah.
She tries to hug me as we part, but I pull away, not wanting her to see my tears. I rush out into the blinding light. The storm has passed. A brilliant rainbow arcs toward the distant meadow.
I get in my car and sit motionless, like a mannequin.
Why did I fall for all that glitter when there was nothing underneath but smoke and emptiness? I’ll never know the answer.
I start the engine and head toward the meadow to revisit the wildflowers. But this time, I’ll look at the divots made by ground squirrels and the burnt-out tree trunks left by a long-forgotten fire.
Table of Contents
Neil Weiner has over 40 years’ experience as a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma recovery and anxiety disorders. He enjoys using stories to help readers harness their resilience within to aid them on their healing journey. He has been published in a variety of professional journals and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and The
Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a Portland Newspaper, AskDr.Neil.
Follow NER on Twitter @NERIconoclas
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One Response
Kind of a letdown ending. The furry critter in the (female) eagle’s beak was a good false lead. All in all, a good exemplar of how men are such pushovers. Wake up, guys!