I always loved your powerful ginger hair. It seemed to have always framed your face so well. It's no secret I adore ginger hair, but yours always seemed to excite me so much more. The wind brushed it ever so perfectly as we sat on the pier. My mind flashes to the way you so coyly fingered your champagne flute as we watched the water serenely push across the lake. Your face was tinged with such a bright red from embarrassment when our adult merriment made you force that champagne flute through it's own arse. It didn't last long though. Those words:
"Ethan, I am going to marry Peter."
"I'm so sorry."
And as I cautiously pulled myself from her embrace:
"I have to!"
"Don't touch me you lying whore."
I had never been so filled with rage in my life. My borrowed Ferrari seemed so distant sitting at the far end of the pier. What I truly remember is the patter of gravel as it whipped the paint off the rear flanks. It was my last escape from my heartache. The lake estate's drive was windy, darting through thick enclaves of deciduous trees. I knew no matter how much she pretended, she felt no remorse for making the easy decision. When I finally found the road, I broke into tears, I was upset with myself for allowing naïveté to get the best of me. I truly believed she would choose me over the world she was born into. Oh, was I ever wrong.