There’s a nip in the air on this fine night as we walk next to each other, hand in hand. She asks me what I made of tonight, and I answer that I would just as well not go again unless she wishes to? There’s no answer to that, predictably, and so we keep on walking, hand in hand, as if we hadn’t just been about to make a deal with the devil. We can work on it ourselves, I say, to which she, again, stays silent. I see no muscle move on her face, and yet, somehow, I know that this right here— this is the end of it.