The grey sky poured itself into an equally grey ocean. Slate on slate. Cold as the stone slabs of the breakwater, where she stood, paying close attention to her footing so as not to slip on their slick surfaces.

She held the pages in her right hand. They were crumpled, bent, and stuck together in wet clumps. Pages and pages of fluttering white, broken only by his black words.

His black words.

She didn’t want to know him, to be reminded of anything that had become the product of those rough hands. As she moved down the face of the breakwater, towards the white-capped surf, with the pages in her hand, she realized that she was crying, yelling.

But it was all lost to the rain.

She could hear his voice in her ears, smell the scent of him on her skin. And suddenly she hated him for making her hate herself.

She balled the pages up and tossed them in the sea. They spread out over the water at first, like a film of tainted love. And then they slowly sank.

His last remnants lost to the rain.