Like a breeze through the willows, was what she was thinking. The way he passed through her life. She shrugged, thinking if all it was was a summer romance, it had star quality. Long walks on the beach, starlit nights, hand-holding over glasses of wine at the little Italian restaurant long after the staff wanted to leave. They had so much together; they had seemed to be so connected.

And then he was gone. She had gone to his beach house that morning, the air starting to chill a bit with the coming of fall. The door was unlocked, and the place was empty. There was nothing left but an old pair of flip-flops by the fire-pit on the back patio, and a jar of Skippy on the kitchen counter, the top left off and only a scraping of peanut butter left inside.

She realized that the romantic movie aspect of that summer was only that - like some film with popular actors quickly forgotten; not much to remember.