It felt like a needle had pierced her foot. Cursing, she reached down to pluck a tiny seashell from between her toes. Fitting end to summer, she thought.
The soft breeze sweeping in from the ocean did little to soothe her attitude. She hated good-byes, not that there had been any ceremonious parting of the ways when he left. Not a note, text message, anything. Still, she hoped for one last word. Down deep inside, she knew any explanation would just be some manufactured attempt at the truth. More like an excuse.
Passing the lighthouse where they met, she scolded herself for not realizing that he was a player from the moment their paths first crossed. He was a smooth talker, knew all the right lines and how to cleverly push the right buttons on her emotions. Over the last few weeks she fell for his act, every step of the way.
She hit the music icon on her phone and broke into a run on the beach, sometimes stumbling in the sand. Her moves seemed almost desperate, as if she was trying to leave every painful memory of him behind. The warm wind gently touched her cheeks as she ran and, for a brief moment, her heart hurt less, until she heard Frank Sinatra’s voice in her earbuds. One line, my fickle friend, the summer wind, brought it all back like waves crashing on the sandy shore as the song came to an end.
