She saw the blood as soon as she walked in.
The tacky little cottage was covered with it.
As was he.
He was still there and still bleeding.

She went to the one window that faced the cove and
looked out.
Looked to the rising sun.
It was a burnished green ball of spite.
Green.
A dancing green sun.
A good traveling sun.
Green at the moment she saw it and froze it.
Green at the second it breached the sea, like a lunging whale,
with just the right refraction, and no dust.
Green was how she captured the memory.
Just as she captured the memory of him still bloody red.

He was no one special, just a maypole for her dance.
A pole to be used and then chopped up and burned.
He begged for release with his eyes. But he didn't
realize it was release that caused his bloody left arm.
The arm he kept his bleeding heart on was a perpetual
barber pole of white linen and crimson ichor.
He couldn't understand why she was leaving him.
She could see no reason to stay. She had drunk all her tea,
eaten all her candy and broken her toy.
It was time for her to travel again.

She finished packing in a matter of minutes and left
him there, still bleeding on the carpet.
She would have to tip the bellboy well to avoid a damage bill.