It did not surprise me when he left the next morning. I had known it would happen.
"I have to work, you know," George said, looking confused and somewhat concerned at the expression on my face. The fleeting impression of his lips on my cheek, the press of a hand on my shoulder, were the last that I would feel of him. The casual grip on his briefcase, his calm, friendly expression, stopped me from seeking more. I pressed my face to the narrow window next to the front door, watching him as he walked down the steps, down the driveway, down the street, out of sight around the corner. My mouth ached with his name. I wanted to call out, but the sounds died in my throat.
