She never forgave him for the music he wrote. She'd come for the it—twenty years ago, today, she'd come for the music. Twenty years ago, today, it had taken her to heights she'd only imagined. Twenty years distant, those heights were ripples of grass on the plains; twenty years of nothing dreamed her the mountains in the distance. She dreamed, and all he had was the music he wrote, and her. The same insipid music.
First published in Short, Fast & Deadly, issue 64, 2011-02-27. Reprinted here by the author.