His tan overcoat lay draped across the overstuffed armchair, a corner of the fabric barely grazing the beige carpet below it. Outside, the raindrops created awkward, mesmerizing movements as they sketched patterns down the windowpane before disappearing altogether.

His coat was still damp, and for a second, my fingers reached out to trace the outer lining, as if to reassure myself that it was still there, that he was still here.

I turned back to the window, my heels digging into the plush carpet, and stared out at a city that was now just a kaleidoscope of color against a backdrop of night, a fast-moving blur of orange and blue hues.

I paused to tap the cigarette against the glass ashtray resting on the sill; the ashes collecting like a puddle, forming a mountain of the forgotten, discarded.

“Are you ready?”

No. I wouldn’t ever be ready, not for this. Not for what I knew would eventually come.

I exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air before evaporating, then pressed the cigarette against the molded glass and turned to face him.

“What’s the matter?”

He always did that, always knew something was wrong just by a silence.

“Nothing’s the matter.”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “You’re not telling the truth.”

He always did that, too – had a way with his words, saying things the way no other man would say them, his accent softly coaxing a need for confession, making a person believe in forgiveness, in possibility. In everything.

I shook my head, picked up his overcoat, and shook out the wrinkles.

“I hate this weather. The rain, it makes everything harder, seem colder than it really is. Your coat is still damp, are you sure you want to wear it?”

He crossed the room and took the coat from my hands, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“A little rain never hurt anyone, really.”

I felt strange, empty, now, as if a part of him had already gone and I wanted to ask for the coat back, wanted to have something that belonged to him belong to me.

“Reservations are at eight, down the road, there.” He paused, mistaking my hesitation, and motioned to the suite’s kitchenette. “We can stay in tonight, if you prefer.”

“No, no, of course not. Dinner is fine, dinner is good.”

Dinner was safe.

“I’ll ring for a taxi-”

“No, let’s walk,” I interrupted him. “I’d rather walk.”

He nodded and reached for the light switch, opening the door as I gathered my coat and purse. From where I was standing I could see the brightly-lit hallway: the beige tile floor, the decorative flowers on the mahogany table, and the still-life of fruit hanging against the drab, paisley wallpaper.

“Wait,” I whispered. Words hung on the air, words that wouldn’t, couldn’t come.

He turned his head and suddenly I knew that I needed to keep these moments for as long as I could, knew that if it was for even just a moment, it would be enough. I wanted to hold onto it, hold onto this.

Because I was certain that once I walked out that door, once I left this building, time would catch up, move forward. And everything would make its way towards tomorrow.

He shut the door, the light ebbing so that only the table lamp illuminated the room in a soft, subtle glow. He moved towards me, standing just inches away.

“What is it?” His voice was low, concerned, his brown eyes searching my own for answers. I wondered if he saw it then, wondered if he knew. I opened my mouth to speak, but shrugged instead.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

And I knew that I could, knew, then, that I would.

“It’s nothing,” I said slowly, quietly. And I smiled and reached up to stroke his arm in silent gratitude. “Let’s enjoy our evening.”

He nodded, took my coat from my hands, and held it up, waiting patiently for me. Waiting. Always waiting. I wanted to wait some more, to delay the night.

“I hate this weather,” I said as I turned around and slipped my arms through the sleeves. “It’s just that it’s so cold out – it’s such a cold rain, isn’t it? And it goes right through you, right down to the core. Like a chill you can’t shake. And it can last or it can be over in a second and you never really know which. But either way, it will always be there, traces of it…”

Like a greeting or a goodbye.

Or a confession.

“I never knew you to be afraid of a little rain.”

“Oh, it’s not the rain. I’m afraid of the change.”

I felt him pause, and I caught my breath, his hand lingering lightly on my arm. For a moment, I thought I could feel the warmth of his touch through the heavy layers, reassuring, calming. He was always so calming.

“Nothing’s changing,” he said quietly, though his tone held a question that I couldn’t answer. And I knew if I looked into his eyes I would be forced to, and I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Something was changing, and tomorrow it would be different. One way or another, he would be gone, and I wouldn’t be able to stop any of it from happening.

“You’re right,” was all I could say. “You’re right.” I wrapped my scarf around my neck and slipped my gloves on over my hands. I sighed, “I really hate this weather.”

He was a moment behind me as I crossed towards the door; I could feel him watching me as I crossed the threshold into the hallway, my heels clicking on the tile as I stepped past the vase of blooming artificial flowers and the portrait of painted fruit.

The moment was gone and we were moving forward again, past a greeting, towards a goodbye, and in between, I knew, there would lie a confession.