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The Same Moon
It was eleven in Santiago when midnight cruised across Buenos Aires to the west.
Alone in his hotel room, wearing only his jeans, Jim was sitting on the rug with his back against the side of the bed, a beer and a joint at hand, his phone near his bare feet. He tried some random chords on the Fender Silvia had given him the year before, his eyes lost on the night skyline outside his window.
She hadn’t replied to his last text.
He knew she wouldn’t. He didn’t expect her to. He’d just wanted her to know. That was it.
His fingers moved over the strings, his voice joined them in a whisper just out of habit. Until he realized which song he was playing. He stopped, breathing deep.
That was the exact moment when he knew she wasn’t there anymore.
Not that he’d lost her. She wasn’t gone. This was different. He could feel it in his guts. She would never reply to his last text, or any other, because she&rs
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