“So I guess that’s it, right? You’ve said your things, I’ve said mine. We have messed up all our words, turned them inside-out and upside-down, converted them into the kind of sharp little daggers that so easily burrow their way between ribs, leaving in their wake scant more than scar tissue and rough hardened skin. We’ll go our separate ways and with any luck we’ll remember to send each other a Christmas card once every five years, we’ll silently nod when we meet in the street, once lovers, now perfect strangers.”
A man dons a blue fedora hat and, with a last slight glance at the mirror, heads for the door.