Dissolution

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They arrived, in separate cabs, at the same moment. A face he would recognize anywhere, a voice he could pick out in any crowd. He covered the distance between them with a few long strides. She stood, stock still, watching him, her face blank. His expression guarded, he reached down and picked up her hand, holding it in both of his.

The door of a bar behind them opened, spilling people, light, and music onto the sidewalk. A man, drunk, jostled her as he stumbled past, muttering, “Fucking shit bag.”

The street quiet and dark again, she squeezed his hand and looked up at him, her eyes pleading. They had spoken a few hours before, had said things that needed to be said, things which should never be said.

He smiled, a brief sad smile. “We coulda made it cruisin,’” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. Melting into his arms, she held on. And he let her.