“Can you pass me the shampoo?” she asked, hand out of the shower. He was passing by the door. He smiled, bent down, and handed her the cat.
No one thought twice about them holding hands through the ceremony. And they never saw when she removed the handcuffs before the reception.
He had never been there before—in the concaves of her body. But she didn’t stop him today, ironically, when she was about to walk away.
The bar was empty. He drank between sets. She came up to him and slid her panties beneath the bar: “Do you remember Red Rocks?” He lied.
He. She. They. Bliss. Boredom. Betrayal. Court papers. Custody hearings. Canceled visitations. Restraining order. Father’s fury. Shotgun.
When winter comes, the pigeons have gone and only one lover sits. The park is gloomy, the trees are bare — as empty as his heart without her.