8/27/06

It was like teasing a wound. Watching her. The way her hand ran through over her spiky brown hair. The last month of our relationship, her lips had become a firm thin line, a jagged mark that marred her face with surpressed anger. I told myself I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want to see her cry. But standing here, obscured in the alcove of the International Science Center, I was knew I was waiting for her smile. To see her carelessly flip her hand to touch the side of her face, cock her head to the side and laugh. She did that for him. And she kissed him. They turned towards me, walked past my shadow, the scent of her jasmine perfume wafting over me like a farewell note.

They never saw me.

His name was Jordan, or at least that’s what she called him. In the morning, they would both be dead.