LittleGreekGirl1

The music from the live jazz performance echoed throughout the dimly lit bar. The only lights in there were positioned above the bartender’s counter and the stage. Robert swallows the bile that rises in his throat when he sees you, exactly where he knew you’d be. You were sitting in the corner with the most light, far away from the few regular attendees. You didn’t order a drink; that wasn’t why you were here. You were here to draw. Tentatively, Robert takes a few steps closer to your hunched form, scribbling away in your sketchbook with graphite pencils your mother had given you. He wants to tap your shoulder, to watch the familiar scene play out again, but he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. “That’s enough of this nonsense,” Rosalind would’ve said had she known he was here, “you’ve got to let your mind heal! One must never overindulge in a memory, no matter how fond.” He knows that if he taps your shoulder, you will turn around and look up at him with big, beautiful eyes.