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sat on the bed again and leaned down to pull on his socks and shoes. As he straightened, he made a gesture for her to approach him.
     
    “Kneel here, before me. Face me with your hands in your lap.”
     
    She crawled the short distance to the point he indicated, her legs shaky from too much pleasure. She looked up at him, her eyes dewy and her heart aching in her chest.
     
    “Don’t cry,” he said. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”
     
    He leaned forward and cupped her cheek, then kissed her on both her eyelids, more gently than he ever had. She took a deep breath, drifting on the scent of him and the tender, fleeting sensations.
     
    “Thank you, Wednesday, for everything. I’ll miss you.”
     
    I’ll miss you too , she wanted to cry out. I’ll miss you so much! I don’t know how I’ll survive without you.
     
    “I wish you the greatest happiness in life,” he continued. “I wish you love and inspiration. A soul mate, to know and understand you. You’ll get it. Don’t settle.”
     
    She bit the inside of her cheek to stay silent. She could feel his lips, soft and yet hard, brushing against her lids. She looked at the ceiling, at the walls, then at him. Please let me speak. Let me say it all . She started to open her mouth, to tell him everything, or even just one thing: thank you.
     
    “No,” he said. “No.” One word, no , but in their economical language she understood the myriad layers of it.
     
    No, I want to remember you as you are.
     
    No, we’re saying good-bye. Let’s not risk this.
     
    No, you’ll say something you’ll regret.
     
    No, there are not enough words for the weight of this moment anyway.
     
    So she knelt, hot with sadness and unshed tears, and ground her teeth to keep from weeping. Even so a few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. They were ignored. Soon after, with one last kiss to her forehead, he stood and left, closing the door behind him.
     
    All the words that longed to spring from her tongue were forever silenced. No matter. In the way he had of understanding everything about her, she was sure he knew exactly what she felt, exactly what she would have said down to the last syllable. He knew exactly what she would have said if she could have, which is why, probably, he insisted on her silence until the bitter end.

Chapter Three
     
     
     
    “Thanks,” Daniel said to the waitress as she set down the coffee.
     
    “Sure, Mr. Laurent.”
     
    He rattled his paper and furtively checked his watch.
     
    Seven fifty-five.
     
    Almost time.
     
    He didn’t do this every day. He wasn’t that pathetic. But yes, he did it often enough that the waitstaff knew him by name. He did it often enough that he knew she got in to work around eight and left to walk home every evening at five. He didn’t watch her leave very often, though. The temptation was just too great, the temptation to cross the street and “run into” her. It would have been so easy, so quick.
     
    But no. He was giving her some space. He didn’t want to try to woo her while she was still processing the hurt of Vincent’s uncollaring, so instead he planned and waited. The first move had to be controlled. No precipitous propositions. No wild declarations of desire.
     
    God, there she was, right there , all legs and short skirt and wild hair and her too-big messenger bag banging against her hip. He could have eaten her alive. Every day he wanted to go to her, cross the street and lay claim to her, but he only watched her disappear into her office, biding his time.
     
    Until today.
     
    It had been over a month since Vincent let her go. Every day that went by was one day closer she got to mental health. She barely dragged anymore. In fact, yesterday he’d sensed an alarming new bounce to her gait. God forbid she’d met some other nice guy before he’d put in his bid.
     
    So why did he still sit here spying? Fuck, why was this so difficult? Why not just walk up to her, shake her hand? Remember