Eddie scowls at me as if I’ve just slapped her for no reason. That same moment I know that it’s a lie, but in my shame and confusion I stay stubbornly silent rather than immediately taking back what I’ve said. I should cry, I love you! I panicked. I’m sorry. There are reasons. They might not be real, but . . .

The opportunity is gone, and I see that the door Eddie has held open to me for three summers has now slammed shut, and the life I might have begun sweeps away from me like a tree trunk caught in the rapids.

“No,” I beg, meaning this sight of the future drifting away, but her voice quivers with controlled rage as she orders, “Out! Clear off! Get out!”

My voice fails me in the light of my knowledge that I’ve just broken Eddie’s heart. I can hear it screaming, even as she orders in a faint but controlled voice, “Out, Henri. Clear off!”

I get up and dress. She doesn’t watch. I can feel myself fading and diminishing because those eyes are no longer trained on me. But still I don’t manage to say anything or take the three steps toward the spot where I can hear her breathing. She is not weeping. Oh my God, what have I done? I pick up my bag and walk over to the door. What am I doing? I turn round and stare straight into her chill eyes, longing—no, pleading for her to say something. Something like, “Stay!” or “Don’t go!” or “You were lying just now, weren’t you?”

I was.

I can feel my growing pain and only now do I recognize the feeling behind it. So this is love?

I’m incapable of saying anything. My life silently shrinks, as if I’ve denied myself a lifetime of opportunities. Love, children, and nights when I might finally have slept. No more dread of death.

Seven days later I reach into the cavity for the key, and it’s gone.

Sam

“Oh man!” shouts Scott as we cross the bridge to Hammersmith station. He cannot hide his excitement that we’re actually on our way to Eddie’s publishing house, Realitycrash. He’s tried his best to act cool by twiddling an unlit cigarette in his fingers, wearing shades, dressing in a black roll-neck sweater and gray trousers, and turning up his jacket collar like one of those French existentialists you see in photos from the seventies.