I didn't go upstairs. I found a quiet spot with a clear line of sight to the building entrance and stood there.
About ten minutes later, a black SUV turned the corner at the end of the street.
A license plate I knew by heart.
Rufus's car.
It pulled up beside the entrance. The engine stayed running.
Two or three minutes passed. Then Marjorie came out.
She'd changed into a dress. A white floral sundress I'd never seen before. Her hair was down, draped over her shoulders, and she'd put on light makeup.
She walked with a bounce in her step, pulled open the passenger door, and slid in.
Before the door even closed all the way, they were kissing.
Rufus had one hand on the steering wheel. The other cradled the back of her head.
She leaned into him, half her body pressed against his.
The kiss went on and on.
I watched from roughly a hundred feet away. Every detail, perfectly clear.
A sharp sting flared in my chest, like the jab of a needle.
Then it was gone.
Everything was gone.
No pain. No anger. No grief.
Just emptiness.
And numbness.
After Rufus drove off, I flagged down a cab. Told the driver to follow the black SUV ahead of us, not too close.