He taps his fingers against the bar, hoping that this drink in his hand and the cell phone hanging heavy in his pocket will be enough to keep him here. He’s still not sure.

But then he feels her hand lightly clutch at his shoulder (her touches had always seemed so needy) and he doesn’t need to raise his eyes to know it’s her.

He’s silent and she’s silent and suddenly he knows that he’ll let her say it first. His last gift to her. He owes her that much, even if he suspects that his using her went both ways.

“It’s not working” and it’s weird that he’s relieved it’s her voice not his that says it. Her words had always reminded him of autumn, the crinkle of gold or the whistle through trees, for some reason, and now is a strange time to realize it.

He nods, his drink making a subtle clink sound, and he allows her to leave him behind. He lingers, just for a second, thinking about what could have been, before leaving the money on the bar and shifting into what will be.