He watched her walk into the night, knowing he should turn and walk blindly in the other direction. Instead, he followed her — slowly at first, and then faster, desperately afraid that he would lose her in the night.
Almost running, he came up beside her, slowing his steps to match hers. “Hi,” he said.
She glanced up at him, night masking her face. “Hello, Bill.” Quietly, casually.
They walked along in silence — awkward — not like the silences of long ago.
He said, “Do you come, here often?”
“Not often.” Her voice was hushed to match the night silence.
As he walked beside her, his hand brushed hers, and it was more than he could bear. He grabbed her hand, stopping her, and suddenly, surprisingly, she was in his arms, her sobs shaking him. He tasted salt on his own lips and realized without wonder that he too had tears.
She pulled away and looked up into his eyes, her face a pale oval in the night. She said with an odd, throaty chuckle, “Did I do a good coaching job on Stan Quinn?”
When he realized what she meant, he said, “My darling, you’re a bad type. A fiend with red hair. Come here.”
Her lips were warm.
