marlee.

Tiff, I need you to track those backdrops – and confirm with Complex for the third, pleasseee?”

“Yup,” I caught her nod out of the corner of my eye.

“When does that project with The Coveteur start again?”

To say business was booming would be an understatement. At this point I needed three of me just to cover my January calendar. Most of my work days were no less than 12 hours, and though I was too tired to function by the time I got home most nights I didn’t complain. It was a good problem to have.

“February 12th – are you excited?”

“Hella, and a little nervous.” For the first time ever I was stepping from behind the lenses for a bit to act as a creative director for the popular lifestyle blog.

“You’re the shit. You’re gonna do good.” She encouraged with an ease that spoke volumes about how genuine she was.

I beamed. “That’s exactly why I keep you around,”

“And here I was thinking that it was because I reminded you of your Asian roots.” She was laughing before she could even finish the sentence.

“You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.” I muttered even as I released a breathy cackle.

Though the statement was a joke, it held truth. Tiffany was the only person of Asian descent that I ‘d ever truly spent time with. Needless to say, I didn’t know my father and from what I’d heard he’d never wanted to know me so that side of my family was a complete mystery to me.

“I have so much to doooo!” I screeched out into the open space of my studio, earning a long, straight-faced stare from Tiffany. “I do. I have to finish the edits for Essie because they’re so fucking ridiculous and particular that everything we submit gets sent back for more editing. Then I have to show my face at Denatis’ gallery, and shoot for the Vetements campaign.”

“Don’t forget you’re set be a key note speaker at the Black Creatives conference.”

“Fuck,” I hissed. “I forgot about that.”

“Figured. Then there’s that tech conference in Vegas.”

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, I huffed. “But we got it. We’re good.” She assured, and because she was so good at her job I believed her.

Ironically I hadn’t even wanted to hire her. It was Larry’s doing and in the beginning I had been everything but receptive to her. However, she hung in there eventually earning my respect and then my love. That was well over two years ago and honestly I couldn’t imagine surviving without her.

“I need to go,’ I muttered eyeing the time on my phone. “I have a dinner tonight with Pierre.”

Her frown was instant and her eyes nearly crossed with confusion. “There’s no dinner with Life + Times set up for tonight.”

She was already scrolling through her phone to validate the statement. She would be the one to know. She’d curated my calendar so perfectly that there was no space for error.

“It’s not on the calendar.” I stood from my seated position on the floor, groaning as my joints cracked.

“Why not?” Her frowned deepened. “I would have certainly put if there if they’d scheduled it. I didn’t–“

“It’s not a business dinner.” Her frown instant dropped before curling in confusion and then accusation. “It’s really casual.”

“Just you and Pierre?” She pressed and I fought not to roll my eyes as annoyance crept up my back. There was nothing I hated more than being questioned.

“Yup.” My cheery response was faux. “Just me and Pierre.”

“How long will this take?” I pondered, adjusting the large headphones over my ears.

“Twenty minutes.” The pilot answered with a small smile. I returned the friendly gesture before looking to Larry who was already watching me.

“Hi.” I grinned.

His normally honey hued skin was now toffee due to too many kisses from the sun. His twisted hair was frizzy and pulled up into a ponytail. His eyes were bright and rivaled even the most coveted pieces at Tiffany. He was single-handedly the most beautiful being I’d ever laid my eyes on.

My eyes dropped from his frame as I tried to focus on clearing the fog my awe of him had clouded my brain with. He was the worst kind of distraction. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything when he was near.

Then again the only thing we were here in Maldives to focus on was us.

Somewhere in the midst of the celebration of our union we deaded the concept of repairing us and decided to simply bulldoze and start over. There were far too many cracks and to caulk them all would only lead to future damage. We needed to heal from the inside out – patching up wasn’t an option.

To my dismay healing began with not only approaching but diving headfirst into odoriferous topics. Like Luzy…

As though he sensed my putrid thinking, he covered my hand with his. Warmth instantly cloaked my achy bones and brightness exploded, annihilating my dark thoughts.

I smiled as his fingers laced with mine. “Are you excited?” He quizzed.

“About?” I hummed, gazing up at him.

“Going to a new island?”

“Oh! Yes, I am.”

We’d been in Male for days now and while it was beautiful it didn’t offer the seclusion the smaller islands did.

“What we do when we get there?” He quizzed, squeezing my hand to pull my attention from the endless blue view.

“Huh?” With patience that didn’t surprise me, he repeated the question.

My smirk was instant, as my mind was instantly plastered with images of all the things I wanted to do to him. “Why you look like that?”

“I was thinking about what  I wanted to do.”

“Wha?” He feigned innocence and then laughed when my brows rose. “Why you do that?!”

“You know whats that means.” I mocked.

And he did.

We’d nearly fallen off of the bungalow walkway in our haste. My top was no more before we could completely close the door. In fact, I was sure that he’d ripped my prized bikini top.

“How long before the bags come?” Larry breathed, peppering kisses along the rise of my breasts.

“Hour. An hour.” My reply was a rushed murmur as my attention was solely riveted on the heat that was steadily rising in my center.

“Good.” He responded before tucking my needy nipple into the furnace that was his mouth.

His eyes rose to meet mine as he suckled at my sensitive flesh. He stared me down, knowing his impact. In his gaze I saw his will to destroy me.

My eyes nearly crossed under the pull of lust as I watched him disrobe. His tank came off easily. The sweats he wore came off easier. And when he stood before me, wearing only a pair of grey Calvins, I moved forward, deciding that I wanted to unwrap my prize.

My heart throbbed as the heat from his stare blanketed me in lust. Warmth spread through me quickly, settling in my core and the crest of my cheeks. If I were any lighter I’d be crimson.

Knowing what I wanted and what I was going for, Larry stepped back, shaking his head at my advance. “Take your clothes off.”

My face went slack and he smiled, amused by my impatience. “Now.”

The command didn’t go unheard and I instantly went to work, peeling the remainder of my clothes off. The mountain of garments at my feet grew larger with each item I shed.

Left in only my bikini bottoms, I smirked as Larry’s eyes latched on to my curves. I tugged slowly at the skimpy material and then let gravity do it’s job, watching the fabric slide slowly down my thighs.

This time Larry was the impatient one, gripping my hips and lifting me before I had the chance to step out of the beachwear.

“You still have on boxers.” I complained, wanting him as bare as me.

“I take off… later.” He murmured, depositing me on the lofty bed. “I want to taste you.”

If I was a fire, his words were gasoline.

“Puis-je poser mon cul sur ta guele?” (Can I sit on your face)

If he was a fire, my words were fans.

“Please,” He begged, pulling me up effortlessly.

His movements were as coordinated as his dancing. Within the swiftest seconds, he laid down and positioned me how he wanted me – perched proudly over his face.

The tickle of his breath was enough to send my hips forwards. The first flick of his tongue was enough to melt me into goo.

Larry aimed straight for my aching clit, twirling his tongue with choreographed torture. I moaned and whimpered and he licked again, leaving me no time to recover. His sadistic ways always floored me.

“Please, baby,” I whimpered, driving my fingers through his disheveled twists.

His fingers devoured my thighs, molding the flesh with greedy grasps. His tongue pummeled my pussy, stroking heavier and rougher with each second – just how I liked it.

I fisted his hair as he fisted my ass, moving me over his mouth and tornado of a tongue. Heat clamped to my womb, sending my core into fit of trembles.

I gaze down, anxious to find the eyes of the man who destroyed me most. I wasn’t surprised to find his eyes already latched to me. He lived to see me fall apart.

My head fell forward as his mouth pulled me towards a vortex of bliss. “Lar– “ The -ry expired in my throat as his tongue took to lapping the underside of my clit.

I bucked and gasped, feeling my core begin the slow trickle of lava-like pleasure. “Merde,” I moaned.

I hated and loved the current sensitivity of my body. I’d been on his face for less than three minutes and already I was about to erupt. Either Larry was getting stronger or I was getting weaker.

“Je peux jouir…”  (Can I cum) My french grew faint as pleasure in the form of electricity struck me. The sweet pressure began to build. My hips began to wind. “dans ta bouche?” (in your mouth)

His answer came in the form of lethal tongue lashes and suckling lips. I bucked and screamed, surely disrupting the entire island as my candied lava trickled to the tip before erupting.

Not caring that I was paralyzed and that my pussy was still quaking, Larry quickly put me on my back, covering my body with his. At the feel of him, hot and heavy over me, I too ignored my weakened state and set out to ravish him.

I tugged at his briefs with a desperation the scared me. My frenzied fingers were everything but coordinated, landing me nowhere.

Larry who possessed the patience of a monk took over, ridding himself of the offensive cotton undergarments with a single movement. Blindly, he tossed them, not caring about where they landed.

“Je le veux,” (I want it) I hummed impatiently as he nestled between my thighs.

“Ouais?” He breathed, brushing his lips over mine. My nod was rushed and uncoordinated, leading him to breathy laughter.

“Elle est un cul a bites.” (She loves the dick) He sang, winding against my sex.

My laughter was tangled in a moan. “I do.” I confirmed.

“My wife love me only for my zizi.” His smile reached his eyes, leaving me utterly smitten.

“I love you as a whole – all of you. Everything.”

His smile faded but the glow in his eyes didn’t. Satisfaction and gratitude lined his features, honeying any and every part of me that was left bitter from our unsavory past.

“Those words with your voice is my favorite song I ever hear.” He breathed, parting my lips with his tongue and my sex with the dick I loved so much.

“I love you, Marlee. And I never live another day without make you know that.” He sealed his promise with a kiss that was innocent and sweet. And then pulled back, impaling me –  parting flesh that knew only him.

Larry and I fucked to a point of exhaustion. When our bodies could no longer actively thrive in the field of passion, we curled against each other and conversed.

He told me of the things he and Lau had coming up and I told him of the new goals I’d set into place and how eager I was to get back to work.

We touched and talked, whispered and caressed until Larry eventually gave way to slumber, with his head nestled in the hollow of my neck.

The moment was so perfect that my eyes glazed with tears. Knowing I had my man back and that our future was bright filled me with a feeling that was impossible to describe.

The sound of the waves outside filled the void that Larry’s voice had left. But sadly the waves weren’t enough to accommodate the lofty space and my memories filed in, one by fucking one.

“You so stupid,” I cackled. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” He smiled. It was vivid and consumed his entire face.

“I know, that’s what makes you so ridiculous.”

I chuckled, glancing down at the wine glass that had been in my hand for minutes now. I’d yet to drink any of the dry, red vino because I was too distracted by good conversation, and genuine happiness. I’d been deprived of the two for so long that I didn’t know how to act when they occurred any more. Balance was nonexistent but I wasn’t complaining.

“How did you like Paris?” I quizzed, finally taking a sip of my neglected beverage.

“It was dope.” He grinned in remembrance. “People heard my name and thought ya boy was French – and then I spoke.” I laughed. “Those French pointers you gave me were trash.”

“Nigga, those were A1 tips I gave you.” I retorted through cackles. “I even wrote pronunciations phonetically.”

“That shit still ain’t work.” He rolled his eyes even as his lips curved into a smile. “That language is trash.”

“It’s a beautiful language.” I defended the language I’d learned through some of my happiest moments.

“Trash.” He joked. “How did you learn it anyway?”

Coffee colored eyes raked over my face, pausing to take in every detail. My stomach twisted and heart raced. He made me nervous. He gave me butterflies.

He made me feel like Larry used to.

I knew I was trekking down a dangerous trail but I couldn’t pull myself to a stop, and frankly I didn’t want to. What I felt right now was too good. It was addictive but I had every intention of pacing myself. I only wanted small doses to hold me over until my husband and I found our way back to normalcy.

I’d always prided myself on not being powered by male attention. I coasted through my adolescence, watching friends fall left and right for boys. I went through high school, hearing about virginity being lost, love being declared and hearts being shattered, and then I met Larry. He was the first and only boy I’d given a second thought. And along with that second thought I gave my time, my heart, my virginity, my everything.

I’d never wanted another man, and I still didn’t but what I did want was attention and Larry offered it only when he felt like it. Pierre on the other hand was into me, and it showed.

Little emails and text messages from him would make my day. Light would emerge from the grayest clouds when he called. And though it was rare, whenever we did physically hangout, I’d be left with a high that lasted for days.

I wanted to feel bad for the relationship I carried on with Pierre but I didn’t. He made me feel entirely too good for me to feel anything but happy. He was my friend – my good friend who beckoned butterflies with his words and heart palpitations with his glances.

“My hus– Larry taught me.” I murmured the fact. I hated to talk about him. It didn’t seem right.

He nodded his acceptance, taking a sip of his water. “That’s dope.”

“Yeah. He taught me French, I taught him English.” I rambled, unable to stop myself. Once I started talking about Larry it was impossible stop, which is why I stayed away from the subject.

Especially with Pierre.

“It’s clear that he’s the better teacher.” I gasped out as he laughed. “I’m fucking with you.”

But we both knew he wasn’t. “English is a difficult language.” I muttered in defense of my husband’s raggedy English. “It’s niggas who have the shit as their native tongue and they still can’t speak the shit.” I went on.

“I feel you.” He nodded with smirk resting in the corner of his lips.

Deciding to dead a potential one-sided debate, I went back to the original topic.“Other than the language barrier, how was it?”

“Amazing. I wish I could’ve stayed for longer – the fucking food.” I chuckled. “I had the best fucking burrito there in my life.”

“You went to Paris and had a burrito?” My smirk morphed into a full on smile. “All the bœuf bourguignon, coq au vin, gougère, crêpes you could have had and you got a burrito?”

I didn’t doubt that the burrito was good. Paris was a melting pot of different types of cuisines, as it wasn’t one dimensional when it came to culture. However, I’d given Pierre a full out lecture about stepping out of his comfort zone hours before he boarded his flight.

“I mean, I ate that shit too. I actually had the orange duck shit–“

“Duck à l'orange,” I corrected him, wearing a toothy grin.

“Yeah! That shit was lit.” His eyes glazed at the mention of the classic dish. “You ever had it?”

“Yeah but I don’t like duck.”

“You’re such a picky eater, sweetheart.” A small smile sent his lips upward.

“No I’m not!” I laughed out,defending myself. “I just don’t like duck.”

“Or chocolate or mint or kiwis or watermelon.” He frowned. “Or biscuits! Who the fuck doesn’t like biscuits?”

The expression sent me into a fit of laughter. He’d seemingly gotten more frustrated with my leary taste buds with each food he rattled off.

“Me.” I chuckled, wiping the corner of my eyes where tears had gathered. “Those dry shits.”

“You ain’t had the right ones.” He was sure of his statement. Almost as sure as he was that he knew me.

Pierre rattling off the foods that I despised most wasn’t the only thing he did to confirm the fact that he knew me… well.

There were times when he’d complete my sentences or tell me what I was thinking based solely by an expression on my face. He was in tune with me, he watched me. His initial curiosity stemmed from admiration and over the past few months he’d dedicated himself to learning me through and through.

It bothered me but I couldn’t quite figure out why. I mean, I knew him… well. But he knew me differently, or at least he wanted to.

The way I sought to know him was how one would know a friend and the way he sought to know me was more intimate. It was as though he was courting me – the questions he asked, the statements he made, the way he regarded me.

He liked me.

I knew it.

And it filled me with guilt.

I didn’t know how to stop it without me having to stop being around him, and I wanted to be around him because I enjoyed him. He was smart and funny and attentive and talented – and he paid attention to me unlike my husband.

I sucked up his male energy. I gorged myself on his compliments. I feasted on his stares. His touches, though rare and innocent, acted as my carbs, giving me energy.

I’d morphed into a gourmand who consumed misplaced satisfaction.

Gluttonous and guilty.

Pierre was sweet to my senses but I was intelligent enough to know that saccharine delights were often poison in disguise.

Tiff’s reaction to the news that I’d be having a ‘casual’ dinner with Pierre tonight lined my lungs with crude vapors. Her reaction only confirmed exactly what I knew – that I was behaving inappropriately for a happily, married woman.

But happiness had somehow lost it’s way in my marriage. It drifted and drifted until it was merely a memory. A acrimonious one.

Instead of the past, and memories, bringing on delightful smiles they summoned rancorous snarls. Bitterness had become my specialty, and I was good at it.

Prior to Pierre waltzing along I’d spent my mornings, noons and nights yearning for my husband, yearning for our marriage – the way it used to be. I woke up each morning trying to pinpoint exactly where our bliss had blundered. And by the time I went to sleep I knew.

The babies. The lack of. The loss.

Knowing that my failure to produce life, a liaison of me and Larry, ruined us sent me spiraling. My knowledge brought clarity but no acceptance.

My routine of self loathing grew more intense with each rotation of the earth. I wondered the worst things – things I wouldn’t dare say aloud. Words that were so acerbic my tongue would melt before the first syllable hit the air.

On the day I met Pierre I’d risen, wondering where my husband was. I’d made myself breakfast and ate it alone, upset that he hadn’t answered my call. I’d replayed arguments in my head as I read emails from Tiffany briefing me on Life + Times. I’d dressed and when Larry arrived home, wearing a smile that I was positive I didn’t put there, I silently wondered if he viewed me as the walking morgue of his children. An urn filled with nothing but possibilities.

Then he kissed me, slid his hands into my panties and willed the thoughts away. He was the remedy for the poison I masochistically consumed daily.

I’d left him with a promise to wrap my meeting up quickly. I’d left him wanting him – craving. But as I sat in the back of a yellow cab I realized that Larry was not a remedy for my inner pain. He was merely the Nyquil that quieted the symptoms but didn’t rid of them.

I’d whimpered and then cried and then fixed my makeup before entering Buddakan to meet Pierre.

Work was the perfect distraction but the more I spoke to the man creatively behind the popular lifestyle blog I realized that I wasn’t distracted by the concept of work but the concept of him.

That night when I got home, I fucked my husband.

And drifted to sleep, thinking of another man.

Now I sat before him laughing and smiling harder than I have in months. For the moment my guilt was cloaked in glitter. I would consider morals when I got home to my empty Tribeca loft.

For now I would enjoy my friend.

“My guy, you eat like a fucking toddler.” I huffed behind my partial smile.

“Wha?” He wondered, clueless that the sea bass he’d been enjoyed was woven within his mustache.

With an eye roll and a chuckle, I leaned forward, knocking the misplaced seafood away.

“You ain’t have to slap me,” He gripped my wrist before I could fully disengage.

“I ain’t sl–“

“Ce quoi ce bordel..?” (What the fuck) The heavy French rasp was too familiar for my heart to remain in place.

It dropped to my soles before my eyes could complete ascent the 6'4 frame of the man I’d given everything to.“Larry,”

“Je le savais.” (I knew it) He confirmed in a distant whisper, and to garner more confirmation his narrowed eyes trailed to where Pierre’s fingers were encased around my wrist.

I nearly shrieked aloud as I snatched my arm from his grip, moving my fingers and intentions back to the clear zone – the innocent zone. But it was too late. Despite the fact that my hand was no longer in Pierre’s space Larry’s eyes still clung to it.

He stared hard enough to burn the flesh, to melt through my bones and leave my marrow is a gaseous state. With curiosity and dread my eyes followed his, finding moisturized fingers and manicured nails. He stared and so did I, and when the anomaly that guarded his attention finally became apparent, I gasped – loudly.

I wasn’t wearing my ring, and I knew it looked like it was deliberate because I was out dinning with Pierre but it wasn’t. Yet, I knew that if I explained to Larry that I’d been cleaning prior to arriving here that he wouldn’t believe me.

The circumstances and the way things appeared nearly led me to not believe me.

“Larry?” I called again. “Que faites-tu ici?” (What are you doing here)

His frown grew more intense and his eyes burned with the heat of a thousand suns. But instead of answering me, or even acknowledging me, he reached for my wine glass, places his lips over one of the burgundy lipstick stains left by me and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

“Lar,” I gasped, knowing my husband didn’t drink, and that he hated wine.

It was when Larry placed the stemmed glass down with far more force than necessary that Pierre reacted, preparing to stand up.

“You good, my brother.” Larry smiled the coldest smile as he locked eyes with Pierre. Jeffrey Dahmer couldn’t even compete. “Wine make her good.”

I knew what good meant and it cracked against my soul like a iron whip, leaving me trembling. Larry thought I was sleeping with Pierre. He was ultra positive that I was cheating. There was no doubt, no questions.

With a final nod he turned to leave but not before shooting me one final glare. However, this time as his eyes met mine I spotted what anger had concealed, heart numbing hurt.

Anguish.

Dejection.

I wanted to crumple into a heap and die. Larry was the very last person on earth I wanted to hurt. I’d hurt him enough already. I’d taken more from him in life than anyone every had.

“Fuck,” I whimpered, shooting out of my seat.

“Marlee,” Pierre finally spoke, grasping my wrist – the wrist that connected to the hand of a seemingly single woman.

“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, snatching away and glaring at him as though he was to blame for my less than impressive acts of a wife.

Outside I found temperatures that had dropped and my pacing husband. “Larry!”

His head shot up at the sound of his name but he scoffed moving in the opposite direction when I took a step towards him.

“Larry,” I spoke his name gently.“It’s not what it looks like!” I rushed out. My desperation was plastered all over my existence.

“Is not?” His brows rose. “That’s what you use? I think you smarter, Marlee. Is very cliché,”

“I don’t care how cliché it sounds. It’s true. Pierre and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

Boredom consumed his face. “What kinda relationship you have?”

“He’s my friend.” I swore. “I would never cheat on you.”

My words forced his lips into a thin line. “Never.” I cemented my truth.

“This nice, sexy.” He fingered the material of my dress. “I never see before. You buy for him?”

His voice was light and cheery but I knew that beneath his exterior a vicious storm was brewing.

He was being typical Larry. The Larry that acted unaffected and careless. The Larry that was cold and cared nothing about my feelings.

“Stop it,” I hissed.

“What I did?”

“Larry, you came here and saw me eating with another man. I know what it looks like and I know you’re upset.”

“I not upset.” He insisted the lie, topping it with a shrug.

“Pierre is just my friend and someone that I work with,”

I reached for his hand, his right with my left, and his eyes instantly dropped to my ringless finger.

“Me touchez pas,” (Don’t touch me) He snapped, snatching away.

“Larry, come on!”

“Don’t yell for me. I should be yelling. I come home, call you a million time and I find you here with this nigga!” His top was finally leaking the steam that brewed inside.

At the mention of him calling me I pulled my phone out finding 8 missed calls and a plethora of text messages.

“I surprise you for take you out and you here!” He roared.

His flames fueled my fire. Each syllable fanned the growing flame. “You finally come the fuck home, and you’re mad because I wasn’t available to you. Well, welcome to my fucking world, baby because you’re never available to me.”

i was out with him, cause you were out with her...

“You talk this shit for nothing me work have nothing to do with you be with this bitch boy, and you not wear your ring!” His hands moved faster than his lips. “And you wear this tight ass dress. You look like you cant even fucking breathe in this plastic shit.” With each word his voice rose. “And I remember you wear shit like this for him before – this what he like? This what you do for him… wear tight dress, heels?” He eyes dropped down to my feet.

“He like your hair like this too?” He carelessly and coldly flicked the curls that rested on my shoulder. “Me and him have a lot him common. What else he like you to do, Marlee?”

He was pissed and now visibly shaking. His hat was low on his eyes and shading eyes that blazed with fury. A sweatshirt covered his upper body and I instantly wondered where his coat was.

At the thought of a coat, I touched my bare arm, realizing that I hadn’t bother to grab mine from coat check.

“Can we just go home and talk about this?” I reasoned, moving towards him.

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at my expense. “Tu es complétement faux cul,” (You are so full of shit)

I nearly choked as he glared at me. He’d never in all our years looked at me like this. He was disgusted, repulsed… by me.

Now crippled and unable, I inwardly sighed, begging him silently for mercy. “Tu sais que je t'aime.” (You know I love you)

He shook his head. “Je sais rien.” (I don’t know anything)

“Baby– “

“Non,” He moved towards the curb, towards the valet.

“ Je peux en placer une?!” (Can I at least get a word in) Wrapped in barbed wire he gave me the gift of his back.

“You’re being so fucking stupid, right now.”

As though I wasn’t out here freezing my ass of in a dress that was equipped to deal with the winter chill  for a max of 60 seconds while partnered with a coat and begging him for his attention and mercy, he spoke to the valet, accepting his keys.

“So fucking dumb!” I barked, craving his attention now more than ever.

“Va te faire voir.” (Go to hell) His hissed and his words were colder than the air whipping around me.

Stunned, I watched him climb into his truck and pull recklessly into traffic. And when I could no longer see him, I turned to retrieve my coat and maybe a little of my dignity.

I stopped in my tracks, seeing Pierre standing near the entrance, watching me – more than likely judging me.

I watched him watch me, grateful that he didn’t know french. He said nothing and neither did I. He was waiting for me to speak but he would wait forever.

With a glance I turned, walking in the opposite direction. I’d sacrificed my coat for the sake of my pride.

I didn’t need it.

I was numb.

-