The Crutch of Devotion

The chipped ceramic mug warmed Liz’s hands, the weak tea inside doing little to chase away the persistent chill that had settled deep within her bones. Outside the grimy window of the all-night diner, the city lights blurred into a smear of indifferent color, each one a tiny star in a vast, uncaring sky. It was past three in the morning, the hour when the world seemed to hold its breath, and Liz felt it most acutely – the hollow ache of being utterly alone, even when she wasn't.

Gary was late. Not unexpected, but still, a familiar pang of disappointment pricked at her. He always was. Late, uncertain, caught between the woman he claimed to want and the one who offered him a constant, unwavering adoration. Liz was the latter, the safe harbor, the last resort. She knew it. And Gary knew it too.

He’d called earlier, his voice a low rumble that always managed to bypass her defenses, a sound that could coax a flicker of warmth even from the glacial landscape of her current emotional state. "Hey, Liz. You up?" he’d asked, and the simple question, tinged with that familiar, almost apologetic tone, had been enough to make her heart leap, a foolish, irrepressible bird.