The cold and shadows of downtown press against her. She doesn’t move, and neither does Jay. His gray eyes look ashen in the moonlight. “You wrote that song about me,” Winnie says by way of introduction. No small talk. Just rip off the Band-Aid. Jay nods. “Does that mean you used to like me? Four years ago?” Another nod. Then, to her surprise, he adds, “Yes.” It is an unequivocal response. A sharp line drawn in the sand, a smear of bright blood on pallid birch trees.
