February rain casts speckled shadows over the bedsheets, the fragile grey trails of the drops trickling in weak, warped arcs, falling to the pavement outside almost without a sound. Perhaps too polite to speak in anything stronger than a whisper.

It still strikes me as funny that even something as translucent and ephemeral as a raindrop would have a shadow. That something as delicate an eyelash could leave behind a trace of itsself. That something so weak could have the power to make at least a transient, fleeting mark on the world. But they are there, sad and soft and wet, stumbling shyly across the pillowcase.

You looked beautiful when it rained. Your flesh was velvet in the stain of the moonlight, an angel with frail white shoulders. The shadows dappled your skin like that of an exotic animal that I had tamed. "Olive.." you would purr, padding up behind me with gentle paws, wrapping yourself around me with drowsy, indulgent satisfaction. My skin would have cooled from standing in the chilled blue tincture of night, but your body would be scalding, and I would soften in your arms. "Come back to bed," you'd murmur, and I would. We'd weave ourselves together, legs tangled and lips burning. We would sleep, bodies seared into the furrowed white linens.

The bed has long since been made, evidence destroyed. The roots of my eyelashes sting from lack of sleep. The asphalt is shining under the streetlights, mottled with silver. A car passes, and the road makes a dirty, slippery noise under its tires that is familiar and that I have never liked.

In the window, I am reflected as a slight, pale haunt. My eyes are sooty with smeared makeup. Both my hair and shirt beg to be washed. I pull the soiled tee over my head and toss it, with some half hearted flicker of intention, into the laundry basket, but I make no move towards the washing machine. I stand there, instead, cold in just my bra and panties, barefoot and freckled with goosebumps. Another car drives down my street.

At this hour of the night, people order takeout. People write novels. They fight, they fuck, they cry. They get away with murder. They stare at their celings and worry themselves to madness. They try to get some sleep. They remember.

I remember everything, it seems.

The colors of you, your muted collection of sweaters and faded jeans. Your tousled hair, copper around the edges in the autumn sun. Your scent, a subtle androgynous sweetness that lingered on my clothes after you'd gone. The sound of your voice, of your records, your guitar, of your breathing. The spice of your skin, the taste of blood on your lips. The silk of your hands running across my thighs, ache of your teeth in my neck. The exquisite agony of you inside of me, deep and metallic. Your whisper that October morning, colored a proud and naiive coral.

I remember everything except for what was wrong.

I shuffle across to the kitchen. The microwave clock reads 3:33 AM, the display flickering with exhaustion. Now would not be a good time to call anyone.

The keys are gummy, and feel good underneath the pads of my fingers. I don't know your new number, but your cell phone hasn't changed. It rings three times before you pick up.

You are breathing a little raggedly, and I can hear indistinguishable music playing softly in another room. "Hello?" you say into the darkness with caution. I listen to your breathing slow, regaining its steady tempo. Outside, another car passes.

"Olive?" you say, with bite in your voice now. "Olive, is that you?"

The microwave clock reads 3:34 now. There are no cars outside now, and the night is stripped down to silence. I hear a woman call your name in the background.

"Happy Anniversary," I whisper, and delicately press "disconnect".