11.9

Fifteen minutes later, the engine was still running. Snowflakes vanished against the windscreen. They ran out of things to say, and she pushed herself up out of the seat and then, paused.

He anticipated her. "Call me tomorrow?"

"Sure."

She swung her legs out over the curb and let the door fall to behind her. He could hear the muted crunch of her boots through the new snow. She was to her door now, fumbling with the key. He turned the engine off, and she hesitated, turned around.

He opened the door.

Standing on the running board, he looked over the roof and called out, "Hey--"

and she said

"Yeah?"

It was a long bit of silence. She felt, rather than saw him decide: no, not tonight. Before he even shifted to lower himself back into the car, the moment lost its tension, and she ran her fingertips back and forth across the key. He closed the door, so softly she couldn't even hear it. He didn't start the car, though, and snowflakes were just fighting to hold their shape before they disintegrated on the glass. She turned around smartly and let herself in. She closed the door, locked it. Took her boots off.

She walked to the window without turning on the lights and watched him through the blinds. He sat static in the driver's seat for an uncomfortable spell, then started the car and drove away into the night.