The idea was hers.
I sit in the car, the engine idling quietly. When I wind down the window a gust of wind takes my breath away, filling my lungs with the taste of the sea.
It is dark. Clouds obscure the night sky.
A shame: I would have liked to see the stars and the moon again.
I pick up my phone, again, checking to see if she has replied, but it looks like she has not even read it.
It is late. Perhaps she has already gone to bed.
I wonder how she will feel in the morning when she sees my message. Will she try to phone me?
Will she feel guilty?
Will she care?
I would like to be fly on the wall. If there is a God, I think, perhaps he would let me come back as a fly. Just for an hour so I could see how she takes the news.
Perhaps she'll be woken by a rap on the door. Police officers come to deliver the bad news.
...
