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Her heels strike a click-click, clickety-click on the pavement. I hear that rhythm in my dreams sometimes. She’ll never know it, but that rhythm is the bass line for “Forget You.” No one will ever know that but me, though. A man has to keep some things to himself.
“I want it to be me,” I blurt without any finesse. I breathe deep and say more calmly, “I want to be the one you use.”
It’s been too many years of wanting you.”
I swear I hear a crack inside my chest. “You…You notice my perfume selections?” The corner of his mouth kicks up just a bit. “Pay attention, angel. I notice. Every. Thing.”
God, but she’s sharp-edged beautiful in this faded watercolor world of mine.
I’m his music. And he’s my wings.
