Sharonâs longing drew her closer, up on her toes, whispering desires into his ear.
Yet he gently set boundaries with a nudge.
His voice was a chilled breeze.
âFind your own way home.
â
The eveningâs shadows did not beckon him back to the party.
Coat in hand, he was set to depart when Sharonâs voice quivered through the air.
âAm I invisible to you? What does she have that I donât?â
He paused but stood resolute, not glancing back.
His reply was a soft consolation.
âThereâs no contest.
â
Sharonâs heart ached with a truth unspoken.
Olivia was beyond reach.
Descending into the night, Raphael was greeted by a breeze that played through the leaves of a lone tree.
Its silhouette held his gaze, lost in thought.
He slid into the car, and the driver inquired, âWhere to?â His voice broke the silence.
The address fell from Raphaelâs lips, leaving the driver wide-eyed.
That address belonged to no property of Raphaelâs.
It dawned on Raphael then, with a distant clarity, he had uttered the location of Dylanâs place.
Time trickled by before he pressed against the seat, forehead in hand, whispering, âLetâs head there.
Iâll take a walk.
â
The driver caught the sorrow in his eyes and, choosing silence, pressed on the accelerator.
Upon arrival, Raphael stepped out, a polite nod sending the driver away.
His coat around him, he struck a match, the flame kissing the tip of his cigarette.
There against the familiar tree, he watched the lights of Dylanâs home flicker alive, then die, a ritual as haunting as it was habitual.
He knew Olivia found solace there, in the very space that gutted him.
And still, he watched.
The lights a balm and a blade, the night a witness to his vigil, he wondered if madness had become his companion.
High above the city, in an apartment on the 22nd floor, Olivia lounged on the sofa.
Cartoons danced on the screen, her attention captured, the light from the television casting a glow on her light pink pajamas.
Dylan emerged from his study, eyeing the remnants of a secret snack.
âIndulged in treats again?â he teased.
In a flurry, Olivia gathered the evidence.
âTheyâre my twice-weekly treat.
Donât even think about tossing them,â she chided, half-serious.
His smile was gentle.
âRemember the dentistâs advice-go easy on those.
â
He wasnât stern, just concerned.
He strolled to the bedroom, retrieving his bathrobe for a shower, and with a backward glance, he reminded her, âBrush your teeth after, unless you fancy a toothache.
â