It dissolved much faster than it grew, and in the span of days it was just a throbbing memory in the back of his head. It was surprisingly cold out considering the season and he sat with her ghost on a wicker bench. In the distance they watched the skyline ebb and flow between pale and gold, between dreaming of cityscapes and automotive headlights. The same way clouds and the stucco of your ceiling can form shapes and figures, this night formed into a painful throb.
      He sat annoyed with himself brooding, angry, hurt and shamed. In the span of a week, and altogether a fortnight, another connection eluded him. Tonight the smoke rose from his cigarette into his face shielding him from the musings of the city’s light. With a sharp inhale he wicks the strings of smoke into his mouth to savor their warming sensation. On the exhale he watches the gas glow with the light of his cell phone. Those weeks summed up into one photo shining in through a four-inch display. She does not smile in the photo, no she is far too brooding herself to do that, she smirks like the sun in her eyes forced her cheeks against her eyes. Her glasses seem to frame her face more than her lenses and he is drawn to its centerpiece.
      I sit now at my desk running from the emotions of those weeks. Her embrace seemed genuine, I could have lived there. Her laugh was true and I would have made her laugh till I was full of her breath. Her lips were venomous and I should have known better. But hindsight is always 20/20 and there isn’t much left to do other than muse at my desk. The wicker bench is gone, and it is far too hot to invite our musings. There is no skyline and I let the heat purge me of such foolish dreams. And in one midsummer night that dream died, but I tell myself that there are such few certainties these days. One of which is that tomorrow will come, and so will the night, so will my dreams, and so will you.
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