[Clever title. And forgive the choppiness. I was experimenting with diction that matched her thought processes; didn’t really work.]
It had only been a few months, but a part of her felt that it was an eternity. Zephyriah did not usually like to dwell on things; dwelling was unproductive, it was unprogressive, it felt awkward. All she could gain from dwelling was a myriad of fractured memories, each of them forcing her to reconcile with the inevitable fact—those times were over. It wasn’t meant to be, and so, even after the whirlwind of intrigue and romance and pleasure, it was no more.
It had begun with a bit of coercion. Adelphie did not enjoy being single: she needed to feel welcome, to feel loved. She was a social creature, one that liked the security and comfort of having relationships and backup plans. He was the ultimate security; he could guarantee her everything—status, wealth, power. He could guarantee all of it, but she could have none of it, and it fell apart. Zephyriah knew that it wasn’t meant to last; she did not usually date boys younger than her, and the one time she did, she had fallen so quickly and so hard that even months later, it was painful to lift herself from the ground.
She hated the cold. The coldness of the snow, the coldness of his attitude to those he deemed less worthy. It was too much for her. She felt exposed by his insensitivity, as if his words stripped her to the world. Soon she felt exposed, used against her better judgment. Eventually, and with much chagrin, she decided that it was inevitably no good for her—he wasn’t dedicated to change; he wouldn’t commit to her needs. She had to leave, and so she did….
But she missed him. And when her phone buzzed in the morning with his plea, she knew that she had no other plans for the evening. She knew that she would meet him. Zephyriah did not anticipate the meeting would go too well, and somehow, she knew to throw a pack of tissues into her handbag. It was necessary, not enjoyable. The meeting was necessary, just like the termination, but it would never be enjoyable. She knew that she needed to move on; there were others out there, others that would treat her and her “lesser” friends better.
The hours leading up to their fateful encounter were empty. She had no plans, and she had cleared out a block in her schedule that was more than sufficient. In those tense few hours before her meeting, she passed the time by pacing. Words swirled about in her head, but Zephyriah did not know which ones to say, which ones she should use. The thought of asking one of her girlfriends passed her mind, but she gave up the idea; she did not want to pass the burden onto others. In those tense hours before her rendezvous, she did not use her power once. Her mind was far too absorbed in other things.
By the time that momentous hour came, Zephyriah hiked up her leather knee-high boots, pull down her knitted cloche, bundled her designer pea coat tightly around her lithe frame, wrapped her neck and face with a dark stole, and checked her reflection briefly in the mirror. As much as she dreaded the meeting—and the inevitable awkwardness—she was not about to meet him as a mess. She still had her dignity to uphold. Besides, if it did come to saying goodbye, she would make sure that he would miss her. Lastly, she pulled the black, silk-lined gloves over her slender fingers, shivering slightly as the cold interior touched her skin. She, at least physically, was ready.
After tucking her handbag under her arm, Zephyriah trudged outside, her boots leaving size seven and half footprints in her wake. The grounds were largely cleared, as only a moron would choose to trudge through a practical blizzard. Zephyriah just happened to be a moron that was once in love….
Nearing the designated meeting point, Adelphie’s steps slowed. Turning back seemed like a viable, and even the smart, option. She did not need to meet him, she did not need to apologize—they had drifted apart, those things happened. But if she turned now, after all the preparation, after all the words that she juggled in her mind, she would have conceded and surrendered. Zephyriah never once considered herself a coward, and she did not intend to start cowering now. Heaving a deep, cold breath that burned her lungs, she stepped forward towards the bench. The fog and darkness made sure that he did not see him until she was practically mere feet from the wooden surface.
“Hey,” she said flatly. The word came off colder than she wanted it to, but she had purposely squelched any enthusiasm at seeing his face. She did not need to sound like she missed him… she did not need to let him know that he had control.