AN: Story title is the title of a song by H.I.M. I don't own that either.

I see her sometimes. It is always in the most mundane of places. In the supermarket. At the pump getting gas. I called out to her once. She showed no sign of recognition and I did not approach her.

She appears more reserved than she was before. Sex no longer oozes out of every pore of her skin, surrounding her like an intoxicating cloud. She no longer seems like the sort of woman who runs through men like wildfire and tosses them away like old laundry.

Outside of the coffee shop, I cross the street to a small park. The last time I saw her, it was here, two weeks ago. She was walking a large boxer, or rather, being walked by one. I only saw her from a distance. I stood out of sight and watched her and she seemed happy. I hope she is happy. I hope I have given her a happier life, even if it must be a new one that doesn't involve me.

I wander aimlessly over the grass. The hiss of headphones playing music turned up far too loud grows and fades, grows and fades as runners on the path pass me by. At least they are less obtrusive than the women in the coffee shop. I hear a deep, booming bark, so I look up, and there she is.

She is picking up a soggy tennis ball that the dog deposited at her feet. I watch the coil and spring of her body as she cocks her arm back and throws. In the time before, Debbie couldn't throw a ball to save her life, another thing that has changed. When the boxer chases after it, I wish I could run too. She calls him back to her. "Hank." His name is Hank. This time when she bends down to retrieve the ball, Hank takes advantage of her proximity and swipes a long tongue from her chin to her forehead. Her laugh carries to me on the wind. It is wrong. It could be anyone's, but it isn't hers.

There is something painful uncoiling in my chest and I have to remember to breathe. A man is walking across the grass perpendicularly to my original trajectory and I tear my eyes away from her to watch him, to distract myself. But he is heading right for her and Hank bounds up to him, tail wagging. By the posture of both humans, I know that they are familiar.

Something about the man stirs my memory and it seems important, almost vitally so. I can't tell what his face looks like at this distance. I can tell what he is going to do however, when he cups her face in his hands. Their lips touch and oh God, he is kissing her, and the thing in my chest explodes into all the old rage. He is kissing her. Debbie. My Debbie. And worse, always worse than him kissing her, is that she is kissing him.

Without thinking of what I am doing, I start walking toward them. They are oblivious to death, as those who are about to die often are, though I don't know how I will do it here, now, in the middle of a crowded park in late afternoon, with no weapon but my bare hands.

I am finally close enough to see his face.

And I remember.

His beard is gone, as is the haunted look that was the last I saw of his face, but it is the same man.

And she laughs again the same laugh as before that isn't the same as it should be because it is all wrong.

And I am finally close enough to really see her face for the first time in three years and I see that it isn't her face at all. So close, but the devil is in the details. If I were a painter, I could paint every perfect detail of her face in my sleep. It would not be this face.

And suddenly, I understand.

And it all comes crashing down.