Her phone rings. It’s some gaudy little tune from some musical.

She starts moving from her place in your arms. Your hand, laying along her side, almost intertwined with hers. You want to grab her hand, tell her to stay. Anything to keep this vision of beauty in your arms. You want to say something to her, something that will keep her here in this moment with you forever. She smiles, seeing the name on her phone, while you die a little more inside.

As her legs swing down and she slips on her shoes, you think back to what brought you to this place. You think of that first night with her, The Party and how it was only the second time she had been drunk. She had been leaning against you then. You went to go watch TV and she was on your shoulder then. As you grew more comfortable in your place, she grew more comfortable with you. Tuesdays at nine was the public time, when all your friends saw you. But it was the six am on that Thursday, the Sunday nights were yours.

You look up, about to tell her all this and more. The things you feel, the words that don’t exist, all this and more comes to mind. You look up, but you’re alone again. The only thing that remains to remind you of her is her scent on her shirt. You rise, pulling a cigarette from your pocket. As you walk out the door, you hear that show tune one last time.

Soon, all you can hear is her voice.

You’re still alone.