Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Velvety brown eyes fixate on the chocolate fluidly severing itself from the metal edge of the spoon and plinking down like raindrops. Again and again, it spills over the the edge of the spoon, the sides of the porcelain bowl, the tips of her fingers.

She doesn’t even like chocolate. She finds it too rich, too sickeningly sweet, no matter what type or color or texture. After two bites, even the most delicious kinds start to coat her tongue in an unpleasant, almost bitter taste, and she has to eat something else to rid herself of the sensation of throwing up. She doesn’t like chocolate.

But he did.

He loved the richness, the sweetness; he loved it unconditionally no matter what type or color or texture. He loved watching her flail for a glass of water after every alternate helping. He loved it all.

She glances in disgust at her sticky hands. She feels the dessert violating her once-immaculate pores, contaminating her being itself. He’s always been a messy eater. Thus thinking, she wipes her expression and not her fingers.

Her gaze drifts away from her soiled skin to avoid any more gross thoughts about the gooeyness, traveling around the cafe. She spies a few dirty looks but think nothing of it. They’re nowhere as dirty as the melted ice-cream in her bowl and on her plate and table and hands. Besides, she got used to it with time. Aside from the dirtiness of it all, the place hasn’t changed a bit from the first time. And the last time. It never seems to change.

She loves him. She wants to. She wants to believe she loves him because he loved her so much that it would be cruel not to return the favor. Especially with all the extra guilt burdening her heart.

The cafe was his favorite place. He’d come with her, with other friends, by himself; it didn’t matter. It was just the place.

She gives it another once-over and sighs. If only he was here so she can tell him how dirty this place has become. Maybe then he wouldn’t like it anymore, and she wouldn’t have to come every saturday.

So dirty. They haven’t even properly scrubbed off all his bloodstains.

She tears her gaze away, bringing it back to the suddenly comparatively less disgusting chocolate. He is gone, but he will always be a part of her.

Even if she has to force it.