The honeymoon in Paris had been Marlene’s idea, but she couldn’t remember who’d started the fight.
Marlene struggled for a parting line. “We’ll always have Paris” ran irritatingly through her thoughts, keeping her from coming up with something more pertinent. Damn Sinatra. No, that wasn’t it. Damn Bogart.
The air in the room was sticky, and the old wooden floor gave off an odor of dust and decaying pine. Justin sat on the bed. Marlene stood at the window with her back to him, not because she couldn’t bear to look, but because that was what you did at a time like this. This was the end and she needed to do it right.
It was raining but Marlene planned to run out soon, into that unwelcoming night. Her hair would form thick wet strands and she wouldn’t know where to go.
Justin sighed loudly. Marlene dug her fingernails into the window sill, leaving marks in the cracked white paint. An ambulance drove by, its siren weeping into the darkness.
If Justin would say the right thing, right now. But she couldn’t turn around. Turnin…