FSF – Alley

The singer’s voice – smoky, forlorn, and ripe with memories – spilled out of the crack left by the club’s backdoor.

She was leaning on the wall with half of her face illuminated by the orange glow of a lamppost from the mouth of the alley.

I stood across her with reasons and pleadings and my heart laid out in a mess between us.

She kept on telling me to forget her, forget us, forget whatever happened between us.

I laughed, the kind of laughter heavy with resignation and melancholy, as I watched her walk back inside.