the end

“You don’t want to get involved with me,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
"Because. It’s not good. It’s just not good. I’m not good.”
“That’s crazy. You are good.”
“It’s not. You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
She shook her head, gently. “Not nearly.”
“Then, tell me.”
“I can’t – and I won’t.” She started packing her briefcase.
“You could.”

She looked at him. Her eyes were damp. He smiled, gently. He had no idea, what she meant, how she meant it – “You don’t want to get involved” -- but he took it as a challenge.

“Yes. I could. But I won’t.”
“Don’t you have to tell someone?”
“People already know, some of them.”
“But you won’t tell me.”

It was a statement; he was careful to make sure it was a statement. Why, he didn’t exactly know. But it was important. It felt important.

“Yes. I won’t. Tell you.”

He looked down, away, took her hand in his. She stood. Her fingers curled around his. “In the end it will be far too painful,” she said.

“In the end?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the end.” For she already knew the ending. She always did; she always had.

“It’s starting to snow,” he said.
“Snow makes things pretty,” she said. “Most things.”