Six Months Ago [flash fiction]

It was November, and the trees spoke only in the language of the wind. The apartments, giant gray dustbins, no longer stuck out of place in a lush ocean of green; Nature's palette ran dry now, and the precious few drops of colour sang to the eyes in a perfect but bland AutoTune voice from discarded candy wrappers. He thought back to six months ago, when such offensive perfection could have been at least mentally replaced with the honest and sincere song of summer birds, but, as usual, no good came out of that.

He never came back to the same place twice, but after the first time, he came back the next day, and the day after that. The spot brought no particular luck - the park enjoyed popularity with dog enthusiasts as a walking area, and he enjoyed popularity with dogs as a barking target. Nor was the area remarkably beautiful even those six months ago, as the little pond that the park was so famous for could not be seen from here. The only water came during the rains, but even in the rains he would come back here, come back running and slipping into a puddle of mud. He'd fall, and always she'd laugh.

But it was not six months ago anymore. The complacent chats at a lazy Sunday afternoon, the contemplative walks around the little pond, the silly little secrets, the nice dinners, the big secrets, the confessions, the first kisses, and more - nothing remained. Everything was cast off, rotting on the ground like the piles of leaves below the moaning skeletons of trees. Such sound was so harsh to the ears, and harsher still to the heart. He listened close for the birds, to no avail. It was November, and the birds did not sing anymore.