I remember rain tapping at the diner window. The smooth white table we sat at held ketchup, salt, and her mournful face cradled in the palm of her hand. The menu appeared as eye-catching as a butterfly in the dark to her. Her dull eyes only scanned the cars outside, drifting by like weary clouds.
At the slightest push, the checkered floor looked ready to fall one by one. But it was us who had fallen, each piece out of place through years of doubt and frustration.
In the past, our time together flew by, and any silence between us was fine. But this kind of silence was excruciating. It was hard to talk with a stomach full of uncertainty. Four years of magic ended painfully. Other people entered our lives and things became complicated. "I'll call ya," she said. We both knew she never would.
In the foggy windshield, her head leaned forward for a minute before pulling away. Then, with the red taillights reflecting off the wet pavement, I watched, silently saying goodbye, all the while knowing a part of me just drifted away... like a gray, weary cloud.
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