There was not a threat of rain that night. They sat on a bench overlooking the sunken. The sounds of shoes pounding on pavement, chatter of passersby, laughter from behind the trees sliced the palpable hurting silence of that night.
They talked in low voices, staring at the space but not at the person beside. They held hands, tracing, fingers intertwined, reminiscing. Sadness in the faces, washed by sodium lights from a few feet away, on acceptance of a fits-like-a-glove relationship that could never be.
In the middle of the sunken, a Chinese lantern alit, released. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. They lost count. Symbolic. They cried inside. Hugs. Tight. Parted. On separate ways. One looked back but the other was gone. Lost in the crowd. Lost in the night. Lost forever.
For H. The one that got away.