He repeated his name for her, but she simply stared ahead, motionless. He watched their past disintegrate behind her eyes.
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.
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.
When he left: clean-shaven, corduroy jacket. After eight months, he moved back bearded, always wearing sunglasses. He never leaves his room.
He wrote poems and she said she’d look them over. In her closet, dust gathered like mountain snow on the paper.
Today was her birthday. She waited for her cards. None came. She sat by the phone. Nobody rang. Today was her birthday, but nobody cared.