T H E K E Y T O M Y H E A R T

by Gisella Gianina

(“Give it back.”)

“Give it back. The key to my heart.”

The woman comes to him on a rainy night, soaked from her hair to her feet, yet eyes noticeably ablaze. Her hair had been cut short and dyed a shade of electric blue that gleams dangerously beneath the lightning. From the rigid way she’s been standing and how she holds a protective hand across her body, he knows she doesn’t intend to be there for long.

When he doesn’t show any signs of replying, the woman narrows her eyes and continues in a biting tone, “the one that’s shaped like a rose, in case you couldn’t recall.”

But the man has long forgotten where the hell he’d put that damned key and she is a sight to behold, a new flavor that he’d never dipped his tongue in. And he surely doesn’t want to miss out on such novelty, so he says, “let me look around, it’s been a long time, after all. You should come in. It’s warmer inside.” It’s not entirely a lie. 

“I’m not sure if I should go further than this,” she gestures to the doorway, eyes on the invisible string that separates their toes.

“But aren’t you cold?”

And the woman’s not entirely unwilling, either. Because she relents a second later, head ducking as she trudges in while he holds the door open. She hesitantly settles herself at the exact spot on the couch where she used to sit, though her body doesn’t curl up the way she always did instinctively in the past. The man then excuses himself to look for the key, aware of her eyes warily watching his every move. He peeks under the rug and checks the trash can. Nope, no sight of her key. He then checks each of his back pockets and the laundry pile and in between his collection of dolls in the bedroom. Still nowhere to be found.

Well, it has been a long time indeed.

The man finally returns to the living room where the woman waits and plops down across from her, empty-handed and hair disheveled from the search. He’s got dust on his expensive shirt, too, and that should tell how much effort he’d put. “I’m so sorry,” he begins, tone apologetic. “But I couldn’t find the key.” 

The woman is silent for a moment. “I entrusted it to you because I thought you’d keep it safe.” Her voice cracks at the edges, the beginning of a torrent. The look of her previously smooth face, now scrunched and crumpled by what he can only predict to be strong waves of emotions, is incredibly stunning. The flame in her eyes that has been dampened by the familiar glisten that’s threatening to fall is even more so. After all, it is a view that the man had long missed. “Do you know how much I’ve suffered because of you? I bet you don’t, and that you don’t even care. See how lightly you treated my key. Now I’ll never be the same again.”

While the woman cries hysterically, the man scans her figure in silence. She’s lost some weight from the last time he saw him and her hair’s changed, but the rose hairpin that she wears catches his attention. It is the same shape as her key. He observes the left side of the opposite couch where she’s sitting and the way her shoulder shakes as she pours herself out and he figures that true to his prediction, she’s not going to be here for long. The man never asks for seconds, you see. He tries everything on the menu and is always on the move. A true connoisseur.

But there could be exceptions, he thinks. Especially when served with a never-tried-before sauce.

“That’s not true,” he says finally, and as if upon instruction, the sobs in the background quiet down to sniffles. She’s giving him her full attention, the way she always did, and he smiles at the sight. “I remember the way your body felt against mine and your rosy kisses and all the lines from the love poems you wrote about me, my dear. They were never insignificant. You were never insignificant. If only I could get a chance to make it up to you…”  

The man walks over and kneels in front of her, taking her trembling hands in his. He’s got his silver spoon ready.

“I still love you, darling. Will you take me in, just one more time?” Topped with a soft voice and equally charming gaze.

Upon that request, like a blooming rose, a hint of pink and a smile make their way to the woman’s face. She coughs out a laugh and nods, ever so shyly, before breaking into a silly giggle. The fire’s all gone. All that’s left is the sticky remains of a storm and the promise of a whole garden being given away on a silver platter.

Looking at her countenance, before he goes in for the sealing kiss, the man suddenly thinks:

Ah, there it is.

He’s found it alright. The key to her heart.

***