The sun streaked naked and bold across the hardwood floor, turning it a golden-honey hue.

He chose not to know the hour. It was inconsequential.

She left him with a depression. A depression in a pillow that still held her soft scent, and blankets that had been tossed aside in haste.

The night had been their first. It was the first night and last night and only night. He chose not to know the hour. It was inconsequential.

He had known her. Still knew her. Always knew her.

As he slipped into his worn jeans, he found her keys in his pocket. She put them there. He walked out of her house grinning, both cocky and sheepish.

He came back. She knew he would. But the keys didn't work. They were the right keys, but they didn't work. She put them there and knew he'd come back. He knew her. Both cocky and sheepish, he knew here.

She put the keys in his pocket, yet they didn't work.

She tossed the blankets aside in haste. She streaked naked and bold across the hardwood floor and left him with a depression.

He chose not to know the hour.

He knew her. It was inconsequential. The keys didn't work.