He bows at her body, thankful and polite, acknowledges the service, plays the part.

She smiles at stories, smart enough to be cynical but hopeful enough to be happy. 

He takes out a notepad and pretends not to watch for a reaction 

As she reads his silver words

As she reads his mind through the blunt tool of his silver words.

He runs. 

He thinks he’s wrong because she told him so. He is wrong.

She wishes she never learnt to question things and then wonders why she is wishing away the liberation of criticism. 

He falls down. 

It doesn’t end.