He was leaving Antigua today. He had loved its picturesque streets and lazy sunny days, and to leave now seemed too soon, but he had to move on. He was having one last drink in the hostel bar. He needed it.
He had spoken to her on the phone that morning. Things were going great. She was having fun. What business was it of his if she was out with guys? They weren’t together anymore. She’d said she was tired of talking about how perfect it’d be when he returned.
When he’d first left to come here the pain had been a constant pounding. The tears came uncontrollably, his eyes overflowing like buckets under a leaky ceiling during a thunderstorm. Now the pounding was just a sad throb in his chest. His Mojito was good.
He remembered another Mojito, with her, in another bar, thousands of miles away. Now she was in bars thousands of miles away with guys that were thousands of miles away from him.
He’d had faith that things could be perfect again, but lately, before he went to sleep each night, a part of him had begun to wonder if things could ever be the same again.
The bus driver came in and called him. He was early. He hadn’t finished his drink.
‘Soy solamente yo hoy?’ He asked the driver.
‘Si, hoy solamente es usted.’
As the bus set off through the sunny streets, he looked through the window and said goodbye forever.
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