Tequila shots lined up on the grimy, grey mosaic floor.
“How many for you to take your shirt off?”
“As a matter of principle, three shots after yours comes off, so I have time for a fuzzy SWOT analysis.”
The pleasurable burn of tequila rushing through her, his hands through her hair, her face in his unwavering palms.
Move in with me. Stay with me. Be with me.
Her face stilled by shock, unregistering. The darkness of her neck as she flings her head back, laughing.
Not more than a heartbeat or two and the steely chill sets in his eyes, reflecting all that is irreparably rent. The weight of his defeated arms hanging by his sides.
Not more than a couple of seconds lost to her disbelief and mirth in the minute that changed their lives forever.
Tell me not to go, she whispered against his lips months later, as GoodBye Central bustled relentlessly behind them.
Why would I do that, he laughed, easily planting a kiss on the top of her head.
Hopeless seconds when she would greedily memorize the softness of those lips and his leaden heart would lock her scent away forever, in the minute that sealed their loss.