A
HUNDRED AND TWO DAYS.
That’s probably about
average, but it didn’t seem close to that long, especially in the
beginning, that first month or so. It was just getting to that
sweet spot, where everything is perfect for a while. A short while.
Before it starts to fade—little by little, usually. Not for them,
though. For them, it was ripped away in the middle of an ordinary
summer afternoon, in a little less than a minute and a
half.
It happened in a city
you may or may not have heard of, but you probably know them—people
like them. You have a friend like her, and maybe you’ve worked with
somebody like him. At minimum, you’ve seen them around, in
restaurants, on the street, walking a dog or two. People said,
Hey, what’s the big deal? It happens all the
time. And it does. Until it happens to you. Then it’s
something different all right, especially when you’re left to
wander the wreckage.
It started in an
unremarkable way, the same way it starts for lots of people: A hint
was dropped, an introduction was made. When you’re set up like
that, you think it’ll never work out. But it can, and sometimes it
does.
It does.
And then somebody
does something stupid. Not stupid. Somebody loses control. And then
. . .
A hundred and two
days. And then it was over.