Monica & Greg

Small piece about lovers reconnecting

Monica rapped her fingers on the bar top, wedding set twinkled in the moonlight.

She glanced at her phone: 11:25 PM. No new messages.

It had been four hours since she texted Greg. A simple message: “Tortuga Beach Bar. Tonight Please.” He read it, but hadn’t responded.

Her ring clinked against the glass of Cabernet, her third - half full. The moon had begun to cast the sand in a silvery glow. Soft squeaks of the metal stool followed her bouncing leg.

She spotted him in the crowd, looking older than she remembered. Grayer. Tired.

“You came,” she said as he approached.

“You asked.” Greg’s voice was careful, measured.

A heavy silence filled the air; the moment between songs.

“What’s going on?”

Monica thumbed her engagement ring, pushing its pointed prongs into her skin before spinning it around.

“I’ve missed you, Greg.” She confessed, barely audible.

“You… miss me?” His gaze shifted to the now empty wine glass. “How’s Brad?”

Brad.

The last thing Monica wanted to talk or think about was Brad.

“Fine.” Her rings clinked loudly at a new glass, silently replaced by the bartender.

“Look, Mon.” He took her hands gently into his own, setting down her wine. “I don’t think you’re in the right space for this.” His thumbs found their familiar places; circled against her knuckles that used to soothe her anxiety.

She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes meeting his. There was a gentleness in them.

“That.” She huffed. “Right there. That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” His tone softened.

“You can’t just let me walk away, marry someone else, leave you behind and still be kind to me.”

“What did you want from me, Mon?”

He waited for her to respond. She didn’t.

“Beg you to stay? You broke my heart.”

Monica wrenched her hands out of his, the force sent her backward.

Greg reached out and instinctively caught her arm.

“STOP!” She screamed at him. He let go instantly, eyes wide. “YOU NEVER LOVED ME SO STOP PRETENDING TO CARE NOW!”

“Never loved you?” His voice coldly steady, “I kept our picture for ten fucking years Monica.”

He pulled a folded photograph from his wallet. “Open it.”

She blinked through the tears, her face hot.

It was a single Polaroid: a photo of the two of them, younger, kissing in a remote location; black sand beach, palm trees. Their initials scribed on the bottom, ink barely legible after a decade of wear.

Monica’s silence filled the air. She stared at the photo.

“You left me, Monica.”

She pulled herself from the memories. “Greg, I - “

Alone.