The smell reminded me of stink bombs. It was sulphuric, a yellowy, slightly-toxic miasma. It pervaded the harbour and then along the south end of the Prom. Had the sea churned something up? It was too dark to tell. Even the rain made no difference. I tried to draw – my lines ran like tears.
It came back. She never went to collect it from the Post Office. She couldn’t have known it was from me. Or did she? Nevertheless, it hurts. I wrapped everything up so carefully. I put a note, a card inside saying how I wanted her to have them. My jewels. Not much, I grant you but mine to give to her. She could sell them, I said. That would be fine too. She never opened it. Never collected it. The bridge has gone. I am adrift from her.
