Not all is lost,” he said to himself, surveying the wreckage of the relationship.
She had left her umbrella behind.
And he would use it, if need be, to fight off further frosty winter downpours of fabricated love, of pre-meditated lust, of rehearsed emotion.
On the bedside table there remained a picture of her, smiling suspiciously into the future. He took pleasure in ripping it from its frame and tearing it into tiny pieces, allowing the fragments to fall, like confetti, onto the floor. Good riddance.
He loved her, of course. But she was gone. And it was raining.