She watched him on the television screen. He was dressed in a tuxedo, looking older than she remembered—more gray in his beard, but still the same boyish smile.
He accepted the award and gave a speech that she knew was written for him, because it was rife with the type of platitudinal statements that he despised, or at least he used to. It had been a long time. Maybe he had changed.
After the ceremony, a reporter caught him walking out to his limo. She leaned against the bodyguard’s forearm and shouted, “Sean, congratulations! Is there anything you want to say to everyone watching at home?”
He walked past the reporter, but then turned around, as if he had just thought of something. Squinting against the flashes, he looked straight into the camera lens and said, “I still love you, Birdie.”
She heard her glass shatter on the floor before she realized she had dropped it.
Nice!