Maria

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Bob swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

Maria flung the picture at him. “Who the hell is she, Robert?”

“She’s an old family friend. Her dad was on the crew, so she rode with us when we were kids.” It took every ounce of self-control not to reach out and scoop up the faded photograph, cradle it gently in his hands.

“She doesn’t look like a kid in that picture.” Maria crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Bob bit his lip. “She and her dad ditched out on the crew when - when we were teenagers.”

Maria took a deep breath, dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, and Bob realized she was trying not to cry. Guilt wrenched in his chest.

“I’ve tried, Bobby, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t compete with a ghost.” She hiccuped, and Bob automatically moved forward to put his arms around her, but she shook her head and stepped back.

“Maria, I --” The words caught in his throat.

“Even now, you can’t say it.” Maria shook her head again, laughed, though the sound came out more like a sob. “Tell me one thing. Do you love her?”

“I’m sorry,” Bob said again.

Maria studied him for a long time. Then she nodded. “Right. I’ll come back for my things.” And she headed for the door.

Bob watched her walk away, sank against the door frame. Then he picked up the picture and smoothed it out with trembling fingers. After a moment, he slid the picture back into his wallet and closed the door. Then he sat down on his bed and cried.

(277 words)