He stood at the edge of the cliff, hands in his pockets, lips pressed together. The wind swept upward, billowed his shirt, his hair, and made him squint his eyes.
His hands came out of his pocket with a trinket. Cupping it in his hands, he drew it to his face and sealed in it his secret. The chain flailed behind it as it sank, forsaken, into the brush below.
Always the contrarian, I wanted to avoid a lovey-dovey Valentine’s Day story. Instead, I imagined a man deliberating, then giving up what he cherished, irrevocably, before he changed his mind.
But wait… was the cherished item the trinket or the secret? We may never know.