Music from the taverna below floats through the open window. It’s Greek, I think. Or Turkish. There are voices too, celebrating; the clink of glasses and laughter.
Does anybody remember laughter?
That’s from a song. I can’t remember what it is. I can’t remember much anymore, though I can recall—
—bringing the glass upstairs from the taverna the other night and finishing the entire bottle of cheap ouzo.
The glass is broken now; shards litter the table in front of me. I cut my foot earlier, and stained the bright poppy-patterned duvet on the bed. There are flowers everywhere in this village. Wisteria strangles the tiny villas, bougainvillea guard the entrance to every garden like aggressive soldiers, baskets and tubs adorn every balcony. The smell of the mimosa is overwhelming.
I hate flowers. They remind me of—
—saying goodbye to Sarah. But I couldn’t say goodbye, could only say au revoir, see you again, wait for me and I’ll be there soon. And I will. I promise.
The sun is almost on the horizon. It’s a wedding downstairs. Alexio the waiter asked me earlier if I’d like to stay. He looked kind and I nearly told him about—
—Sarah, and how I was going to meet her at sunset. In the place she was conceived. Five years ago tonight.
I pick up the glass shard in my right hand.
And I know the secret.