He was afraid not to look at her. He feared that if he dared to look away, or even blink, she would disappear.
He never once failed to give her the attention she wanted, and maybe that’s why she got bored—bored of the man who’d never surprise her; too devoted, too outdated, too predictable.
He was afraid not to look at her, so he watched her as she left, too mesmerized to go after her or try to stop her.
Now the only thing left for him to look at was the lipstick—the one he used to taste—stained on an empty wine glass, the only proof that she had ever existed, a reminder of his grand failure.
Random lines scribbled for this week’s FSF.