It was like she forgot what the point was. The whole point, the wide arching over all point of coming here in the first place. She had begun to retrace steps she had already taken. He reached across the table and she thought for a moment he was reaching for her hand but alas, it was the salt. Who was she anyway to come here demanding all these things and bits from him. He who never ever or hardly at all loved her in the first place. He who asked to leave. It had been nine months since the last time they were both in Los Angeles. This will be different she wrote on the inside lining of the new book she had picked up off the corner discount store. Books and coffee and filling time and writing letters. Love letters to be exact.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I write because maybe you have felt this way as well. Because none of us truly love or ache alone. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair