You Did Nothing Wrong

It is unthinkable to face the fact they must separate again with no way to ease the parting except to tear their hearts in half and stuff a throbbing piece in the other’s pocket. He will fly back to America. She will return to her damp garage.

After talking nonstop the last two days, a morose but comfortable quiet has settled between them as he drives his rental car toward her street. They toss dates back and forth—he could come out in six weeks, maybe four. He has his job, his house, his real life, after all.

His eyes are full of mournful agony every time he looks at her. “I miss you already. I’m sick with it.”

She knows they can’t sustain a life zipping between countries, that he will grow bored of the expense, of her.