He was digging his toes into the sand the way he’d done that night a year ago when they met. The sensation of the individual grains rubbing against his skin triggered a flood, a year’s worth of experience compressed into a moment. The month was March, her name was April.
He was a black hole. She, powerless. Motorcycles and leather, running from the cops – he was invincible and nothing could touch him.
She tried to keep up, but the drugs were too much. He found her in the bathroom soaked in vomit, already gone. “There was nothing I could have done.”
He sipped warm beer and gazed at the bonfire while he lied to himself.