In handwriting he would never forget the words were etched in his mind: Why was this story worth telling.
He twittled the pen in his hand, waited as another beer was brought over, and began to write.
I told this story, because I honestly thought you were dead. Not to be rude, but too bad you're not.
He crossed out the second sentence, and stared out the window to his left. Watching the snow fall; he stared out into the cold night for ten minutes.
The restaurant hushed in the mysterious ways they can, but for once he did not notice.
He stared at the once sentence he had written for a moment; then crossed that out too.
He tore off the sheet of paper, and started on a new page.
I told the story, because you tempted me with love, but when I told you I trusted you; you told me not to. I am still at a loss for a meaning to your glib behavior.
He signed it with an H.
He knew she still ate there on Tuesday nights, as he paid her dinner bill once a month. At least he knew she wouldn't starve. He had done the research, and can go seven days without food. Practical not charity was his thought. Peace of mind.
He folded the note and put it in an envelope. Writing her name on the outside, and the word Tuesday on the bottom right corner.
Tuesday was the only night he did not dine here.
The ocean is vast and unpredictable, but always keeps its secrets.
That’s what she told herself as she crept into her husband’s house on a cliff by the sea. The floorboards creaked as she went, causing her to pause or else be detected. On the walk were posters from his different shenanigan...