As the raindrops dripped down onto the windowsill in a syncopated pattern, Maria couldn’t help but think that they were mocking her.

Maria stood, and carried her cup of coffee back into the kitchen. She told herself that this was to add some sugar to the coffee. This was a lie – the coffee in the cup had been ignored long enough that it had long gone cold. Maria was just self-aware enough to suspect that this was self-deceit, and that she just needed to get away from the pattern of the raindrops, and what it reminded her of.

Syncopation meant rhythm; rhythm meant music. Her brain could process that, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. Not like she should. Not since Piotr ripped out that part of her soul. He then left, with that piece of her trailing behind him, stuck to the sole of his boot.

Maria dropped the coffee cup into the kitchen sink, and then walked back to the windowsill. She listened to the raindrops, and tried to match their pattern. She couldn’t do it.

Fuck. She was going to have to call him.