The frozen curves in the pond made him think of how he had felt frozen in time, a month ago, at her apartment.
How her words had fallen like icicles: I’m sorry, Henry. You’ve been so sweet to me, and I’m sorry about this. But I feel that we haven’t been working out.
“Was it something about me?” he had asked.
No, no — not at all. You’re such a sweet, open, honest guy. I think three months is enough time to know, and I feel like I know.
“You know.” His words were flat, emotionless.
That’s right, I know. It just didn’t have that spark, you know?
“It does for me.”
I’m sorry. I don’t want to lie to you, to keep going with us together, and lie to you that things were going wonderfully and exciting when they really weren’t. And I know — I really know — that you’ll find someone else who does feel that spark, and —
“Did you find someone else?”
Yes. I’m not going to lie about that, either. I did meet someone. And I’m sorry for that.
Sorry for that was frozen for him, the words curving in the air like the curves in the iced pond.
“I’m sorry for that, too,” he said softly to the pond, and the words were carried on frosty clouds from his mouth.
He wished for that someone else to be there, next to him, and looking at the curves in the ice. Someone who would appreciate the beauty of the icy pattern. Someone who also felt a spark and didn’t go looking for it somewhere else.
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