Defeated.

There was only one word for this.

Defeated.

I knew it the moment she came: Her face shone so bright it couldn't be of happiness. Quite the contrary, hers was the look of people who bore bad news, that they'd failed, that they were about to disappoint me. They tried to compensate the lump in their throats by smiling as widely as they could, from one cheek to another, flashing their teeth open as if they had nothing to hide, as if such petty tricks could fool me. I'd seen a lot of those looks back in the days.

We hugged. We kissed each other in the cheeks. We greeted.

We sat down on a couch.

She spoke.

I did not listen. I pretended to, though; I didn't intend to let her remember me as a sore loser. It's imperative that I come across as someone who understood, whatever that meant, someone accepting, whatever that meant.

I seethed. A righteous fury burned my blood. I'd worked too hard, come too far. And now this? This was what I got? All the things I'd done—it come down to this?

I wondered if he was outside, waiting in their rental car. He must be. He wouldn't miss this opportunity to mock me, to revel in his triumph, to wait for her when she walked out. Then he'd wave at me and smile, even though she'd chastise him for that, because he wasn't and had never been one to care about such things like sportsmanship or being nice. She cared, though, which was she'd come to me in person, in my house, even, instead of texting me the message. I'd rather she texted. Like that, I needn't withhold my rage.

She went on with her speech. In truth, she didn't talk much. But the words rang like gunfire and time always moved damnably slow at these moments. I couldn't pretend this was the lowest moment in my otherwise noble and illustrious life. Waiting for my face to heal had been worse. But I didn't trust I'd ever felt so stunned. I had not imagined she could possibly say no; nor had I believed he could possibly get her back. It's too late, I told myself all those weeks. They couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't.

I'd underestimated them.

An apology concluded her speech. Courteous of her, she didn't ask me to remain friends, just stood up, not wanting to further embarrass me in my home.

I stood. But for a moment, I did not meet her eyes; instead, I looked over the room for something hard, something heavy. Why'd I left my pistol in the bedroom? Silly me. It would have been handy now. First her, and then him, as he'd no doubt be running inside after hearing the sound. Hah. Two birds—two lovebirds—in one stone. But what's done was done.

We shook hands. Hugged. Kissed each other in the cheek.

She told me she'd had a good time. I told her the same, which was all I could do to keep myself from putting my hands on her throat and pressing it until her eyes rolled back in her head. That would be dumb; she had a gun with her.

Eventually she let go. And with a nod she turned around and walked toward the door. Before noon they'd be at the airport, and by sunset they'd be in some resort, stiff, sore, but still maddeningly hungry for each other... And then they lived happily ever after.

Happily ever after?

Live?

I called her name. She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and turned her head, curious. I smiled.

"May you live in interesting times."

Encore: Again.