Not About This
He’d forgotten what grief felt like, he’d forgotten the abyss toward which he now tumbled; he’d forgotten what it was like and now, here it was, like an old friend, wrapping him in a cold embrace, whispering to him.
She reached across the table, squeezed his hand, smiling to him, whispered Dante.
She’s amazing, he thought. A stunner.
And we have a bond.
And she’s not mine. Can never be mine.
‘Do you remember that day on the bridge?’ she asked him.
‘Yes. Of course.’
She sighed, a little, ‘You lied to me then and you’ve been lying ever since.’
‘Not lying,’ he said. ‘Just weak.’
‘Was it just a one-night stand sort of thing?’ she asked. ‘The thrill of the chase?’
‘No. I wouldn’t know how to do that,’ he said.
‘I never asked for anything, I never even asked you to say you loved me.’
But I do, he thought, and I can never tell you.
She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Will you write something romantic?’ She gave him her brave smile again, ‘Write about me, perhaps?’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ and she said, ‘But you always break your word.’
‘Not about writing,’ he said. ‘Not about this.’