slowly he walks in the snowy night. approaching the street lights, he’s in one of those glass globes, shaken. frozen furrows underfoot. crispy, crunchy. making statements in the deadened sound. there’s only the baying of solitary hounds, fading back into cotton in the ears. he’s glad of the long johns and the fur hood. much to think about in this wintry vacuum. a relationship that’s run its course. irreconcilable, he thinks. how much, or even whether, he has sinned in seeking or accepting new friendships. whether he cares about the fallout. what she will do if he leaves, how she will live. will these clunky intractable blocks of woe somehow fit together and form a path, a way out. she knows they are in trouble. she sees his half smiles and repartee with others, and is despairing of what to do, what to offer.
he is rounding the block, and sees home now. the wind is picking up and he’s shivering a little, but he thinks he will do it one more time. Maybe one more time.