The new moon was a fine metaphor for this moment, she felt, but didn’t say. Even if she wanted to scream it into his empty face. No marks, no blemishes. Not even a wrinkle.

He hadn’t a crumb of character. She saw that now.

“End of an era, I guess,” he’d said. Robotically. Like he’d memorized the answers for a test, without learning anything. He kept saying more things. The patio stones were cool against her bare feet. Her glass was empty. A breeze picked up, bringing the scent of fresh cut grass.

Which, she thought, was strange at night.

Prompt courtesy of The Secret Keeper‘s weekly challenge.


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