She didn’t say it back. She just picked up her glass, took a slow sip, and watched him walk out into the rain.

“Goodbye, Marie.”

Inside, the jukebox was playing something slow. Something with a pedal steel guitar that sounded like regret. He spotted her at the far end of the bar, alone, tracing the rim of a highball glass with her finger. She hadn’t changed the way he’d feared she would. Same dark hair, same way of holding her shoulders like she was bracing for a wave to hit.

“I still think about you,” she whispered.

Her name was Marie. And her eyes—even from across the room—had that look. Not sadness, exactly. Something deeper. The kind of tired that settles into a person’s bones when they’ve loved the wrong man more than once.

He rested his chin on the top of her head. She pressed her cheek to his chest.

That was the thing about Marie. She could break your heart with six words and never know she’d done it.

She hesitated. Then she placed her hand in his. Her fingers were cool, familiar. He pulled her close, and they swayed in the narrow space between the pool table and the cigarette machine. No music for it. Just the hum of the beer cooler and the rain against the window.