HER

Her. Every day, she chipped away—slivers at a time, whether I invited it or not. Funny how memory doesn’t fade with the rest of the world. Those eyes—stars, moon, cosmic bullshit—still managed to drown me, a full year since she bolted. A little more, actually. She left. Too hasty, dear. Like a child running from her own shadow. Left me prickling and cold, a dog locked outside the house it built.

I needed her heat, her noise, even her ugly-crying. I still see it—liner leaking down her cheeks, drama queen in full regalia, hugging me like it was the last act. Which, I guess, it was. I never let myself play the tape past that part. Even I have boundaries. Well, sometimes.

Her name? Off-limits. She was the one. Woman of my dreams. The rest of humanity—set dressing.

Lamp on, nightstand lit, shrine assembled: her perfume, barely a breath left. It hangs like a ghost, just sweet enough to haunt. I replay the smile she’d flash before the tears would flood out, the way she could switch from angel to banshee in a heartbeat. It’s unsettling how much I miss that chaos. That smell—her body spray, ocean breeze, some cheap tropical fantasy, but it stuck. I’d spray it on my work shirts. Add it to my lotion before I… indulged. Ritual keeps the memory alive. I needed a release. I needed her.

So there I am, reaching for the bottle, squeezing every last drop. Lotion in hand. The scent hits—hard. My airways fill, my nerves go electric, and suddenly I’m right back there: her peeling her shirt off, breasts perfect, hips cocked, eyes daring me to lose control. I slick my hand, thick and creamy, the smell so strong it’s almost her. My cock’s already hard—always is, thinking of her. I lean back, fist tight, thumb grinding that swollen vein. Relentless, merciless, just the way I deserve. I bite down on my lip, eyes glued to the sight of my own hand working my shaft—slick, glonking, obscene. Not huge, but good enough to make her moan, to make her bite back a scream.

It’s punishment, really—how rough I get. I want to last, just to prove I’m in control, but control is a joke. The friction sends jolts up my spine, thighs tensing, balls pulled tight. I close my eyes and watch her ride me, watch her lips part, watch her beg. I want to ruin her memory. I want to ruin myself.

“Sarah,” I groan, low and guttural, teeth clenched. “Fuck.” My body jerks, heat flaring, and I spill over my knuckles, the lotion splattering up my stomach. The world snaps white, then empties. I pant, chest heaving, mouth open, the taste of her name sour on my tongue. My hand slows, sticky, spent. It’s pleasure, but it’s hollow—a joke. My own hand is loyal, but it’s not her.

Maybe I could get her back. If I just tried harder. But she’s a ghost—every photo wiped, every social scrubbed. It’s almost impressive, how thoroughly she erased me. Almost.

And then, as always, the darkness creeps in after the high. Her face, wet with tears, a hand clamped over her mouth. No. Not now. She left because she got scared. Cold feet. That’s my story, and I’ll stick to it when I’m busy hating myself. Still, the need to change her mind—make her see me—is always there, gnawing holes in my resolve.

Sleep takes me down, finally, dreams crawling with her shadow. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I see her everywhere, every detail sharp and unforgiving. What the hell is wrong with me? Morning cracks open the room, and I wake to silence and a mind sealed tight as a bank vault.

The day calls. I narrate the mundane to myself—What’s the uniform, Tom? Green or red? I push hangers aside, eyeing the neutrals. Cream is safe. But Sarah always said I needed color. Red, then. Red for hunger. Red for bleeding out. Red for her. I pull the shirt, lay it over my usual khakis. Predictable. Safe. Not that it matters.

I shower, get dressed, head across the street to the coffee shop. The world is quiet, the air clean, the shop my sanctuary. Lights flicker on, the coffee machine grumbles, and the countertop gleams—a perfect altar to rest my elbows and watch the world file in.

8:17 a.m. Not much, not yet. An old woman shuffles in. Coffee. Black. Easy. I move fast, serve her up, watch her disappear. More familiar faces, caffeine zombies, the regulars. I’m quick. Efficient. Unremarkable. Then a couple wanders in, a woman trailing just behind. Are they together? I play detective. The single guest veers up first, the couple hangs back and surveys the menu, wedding rings winking in the sun. While the wife isn’t looking, the husband sneaks a glance at the other girl’s ass.

You dog. I almost laugh. If only she knew.

“Can I get a chai?” The single girl: pretty face, tattoos climbing up her neck. Not my type. I catch the scent of last night’s regret—alcohol, sweat, desperation. She wants attention. I’ll serve it in a cup.

“You certainly can,” I say, spinning toward the cafe, whipping up the best chai she’ll ever taste. I give her the illusion of being special, but a cup of chai can’t rewrite her story. She pays, I hand her the drink.

“Enjoy.”

She flashes a smile, all teeth, no soul. “Thanks.”

The couple steps up, orders their iced coffees. I work, I serve, I smile. I am the picture of normalcy. Meanwhile, the bells chime again.

Another guest. Another story.

And then—her.

She glides up to the counter, tawny skin catching the light, hazel eyes and curls that don’t care about gravity. Everything else blurs. The room narrows. Background noise fades. Not just another customer—her.