The spigot drips water into the dry fountain at their feet. John and Mary sit in silence as the grey dusk closes around.
John had once known Mary, the rivers of her veins and arteries, the mountains and valleys of muscle and bone.
"You told me you weren't."
"I lied."
"Why?"
"You were leaving."
Her fingers, soft and cool, ghosted over his scar. He had almost forgotten how coolness felt, the sensory memory replaced with the feeling of sand hot enough to burn, the sun beating the uniforms into sweat and dry mouths.
"You know I had to give it...him away."
"But…why? Why didn't you wait?"
"You know why."
"Mary…"
"John, you left me. For him. I loved you, but as soon as he walked through that door, I knew it was all over."
"I'm…sorry."
The spigot dripped on.