Planting a memory

It was January, an unusually warm winter night. I remember what I was wearing but I’ll save the insignificant details. We were heading back from the restaurant, an awkward dinner it was. She sat in the front seat, her hair flowing down her black dress, sheer enough to reveal that she wasn't wearing any underwear. He was in the back, acting more jittery than his usual monotone self. Drunk.

"I want to ride my bike!" he yelled in excitement. She hummed the music while I nervously smiled and grasped the wheel. She looked over at me, smiling, laughing at his antics, looking for reassurance that I found him amusing too. She was much happier at that moment than she was prior to dinner. That image, a planted thought, sticks in my mind. That’s how I left her. A reminder of the beginning of the end. Now I stare at their photographs, and as much as I don’t want to, I miss them. Her, rarely him. All that’s left is the memory of how it used to be, and how it will never be.