He walked towards her. He’d dressed up. He held his motorcycle helmet in his hand.
“So, how are you?” she asked.
He shrugged, uncertain. She noticed her reflection in his eyes.
“How are you?” he asked.
The conversation hung on that.
“So do you want to go first?”
“No,” he said. “Why don’t you?” He looked away, wincing. “Let’s not do this here.” And so they walked, exactly two meters apart, along Toronto’s busiest street. Traffic sounds pitched and blurred. She pictured them walking naked, like mannequins, looking like people but really being plastic.
“I’m not happy,” she said.
He put his hand against the air, stopping something hurdling towards him.
“We don’t have to do this. We’ve talked so much, that’s all we’ve done. My failure has always been an inability to communicate with you.”
She nodded, and five minutes later, he left.
And that’s how two years disappears in the blink of an eye, the slight of a hand.
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