Autumn was close, but the sun still burned.
I dragged my aching, rusted body along, my vision swimming in and out of focus.
A motorcycle tore past with an ear-splitting screech.
It clipped me as it went, carving a raw red streak across my leg.
I fell to the side of the road. The sting kept firing through my nerves, relentless.
Across the street, a black Bentley sat parked in silence.
Two figures stepped out.
One of them I knew too well. Mason.
And the woman beside him had to be Melody.
Mason held Melody's arm, and the way he looked at her was gentle.
I watched the two of them, and the pain in my right leg vanished. What replaced it was worse. Numbness, and a bitterness so deep it had no bottom.
An invisible hand closed around my heart and squeezed.
Mason turned his head. Our eyes met. But it was nothing more than a passing glance, and then he looked away.
Late that night, I sat on the windowsill, staring at the lonely moon.
It flickered the same way the birthday candles had, seven years ago.
Seven years ago, on Mason's birthday, I waited for him. He didn't come home until the sky turned pale with dawn.
I still caught the scent of women's perfume on his shirt.