Under the streetlamp where Willy Blue waited for the café lights to appear, he stamped his feet and pulled his jacket tighter for the hundredth time. He’d left his gloves in the car and as hard as he tried to nudge his sleeves over his fingers, he couldn’t hold the phone to his ear and warm his hands at the same time.
“Damn it, Marcie, I was a free man! In Paris…that thing with Carey. I am not to blame for what happened to us! You decided we were just going to be good friends, as if that could ever happen.”
He watched a black crow circle a trashcan, then spiral to the ground and shake its head at what remained of the moon at the window. Morning was a stripe of pink over a distant highway and it was slow getting to Willy.