She runs, her shoes long forgotten, her feet slapping on the wet path. But she can’t stop, because it might now be too late. Roland said 9pm. She looks at her watch. The minute hand is crawling over the 10. The car might already be there. She runs harder.
A horn from the street. I look between the blinds and out into the rain. A sleek black shape, its nose illuminated, is waiting at the footpath.
The microwave reads 20:53. Almost time.
I walk to the bathroom and splash water on my face, look in the mirror. She’s still dancing in my eyes. I need to move on, to move away. From her, from her consuming madness. I thought I would feel worse than I do.
I pat my face dry and walk back to the kitchen.
The horn sounds again. Better go. Better now. I pick up my bag, take a last look around, and leave my apartment.
Her hair is stuck in tendrils to her face and neck. Her fingertips are starting to pucker. She looks at her watch. Almost. As she rounds the corner, Roland is getting into the car. She screams. A loud, guttural sound. The rain absorbs her noise, blankets her form being seen by the car’s passenger. The night is dreary dark, and it swallows her as the car pulls away.