Afraid to Love by Leona Jackson

didn't want to be the damn ebony heartbreak, but I felt doomed to the archetype he had introduced me to. I cried as I walked back towards the cafe. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and made tiny wet blotches on the side walk. I could feel passersby staring at me, but for once I really didn't care what they thought of me.
     
                                                                          Chapter 10: Mark
     
    I packed the last of my clothes into the suitcase. I paid my rent ahead of time, because Monday morning I was leaving for Germany. I didn't want to stick around the city that now reminded me of Cynthia. She was a lost cause to me and I didn't know what to do about it. I was going to do what came easily. I was going to leave, the same way I did when everyone told me to give up on my writing, the same way I fled when my mother died. I punched the suitcase and looked in the mirror. I always hated times when my only option was to leave, but here I was, ready to leave again. I hadn't told anyone yet and I knew my father wasn't going to be happy about it. I don't know why he cared so much whether I lived in the same city or halfway around the world.
    I needed to get a haircut. My blond hair was growing too long and starting to get in my way during the long hours I spent typing away at the computer. My misery provided me with all the inspiration I needed, but I wasn't producing anything worth talking about.
    Tomorrow evening I was expected to attend my mother's annual birthday dinner party. I knew it made the others feel better, but to me it only made things worse. Why the hell would you have a dinner party for a dead woman? Why cook all of her favorite foods when she wasn't there to eat them? This year I was more down about it than usual. I had hoped to invite Cynthia to come along, but that had left with the breeze. It was hard to believe that the arrival of my mother's birthday dinner meant that it had almost been a year ago that I met Cynthia. All four seasons had passed in the blink of an eye.
    Summer was coming on hard and the temperature was rising. The heat waves reminded me of the ebony lioness's savannah. It had been my intention to write a happy ending for that book, but the lioness hadn't allowed it. She had snarled at me until I gave her the ending she wanted, the ending that made sense, although I didn't realize it until the pages had finished printing. She wanted to be alone.  I scribbled my goodbye to Cynthia and dropped it in the post. Had she read it? If she had, what did she think? Would it make a difference?
    No, not to me at least. Europe was calling my name. I needed something to feel the time until the publisher got back to me about The Ebony Heartbreak . I couldn't stand another moment trapped in this city of dead things. Dead mother, dead friendships, and most of all, dead hope.
    At the newsstand this morning I spotted a bridal magazine. The model that graced its cover was no other than the model I had seen that day while wandering the streets. She hadn't been a happy bride, only a model looking to make a few quick bucks.
    Not sure what else to do with myself, I made my way to the coffee shop. My feet followed their familiar trail, but my mind was an eternity away. I fruitlessly grasped at vague ideas for my next novel, but couldn't hold onto them. They were fleeting, like everything else. Nothing stuck, because nothing ever did.
    As lost as I was to my thoughts, I walked by Cynthia without noticing. If she hadn't whispered my name I may have never known.
    “Mark...” It was both a gasp and a whisper.
    I turned slowly, unsure if I had really heard her.
    “Cynthia?” I said.
    My voice was flat and numb. We studied each other, each hoping the other would make the first move, say the first word, but was there anything to be said? I began to turn away from the relationship that never was and would never be, but she grabbed my