An hour and a half later I walk into the coffee shop. She’s as pale as milk. I catch sight of her face before she sees me. Her mood stains the air around her, colours the way she holds her mouth, and how her dark hair hangs over the newspaper she’s pretending to read. I want to stay in this moment for as long as possible because after this there is no way of avoiding that sadness. It will linger in the air between us, like a bad smell, forever. Any minute now she will lift her head and look at me. I stand at the door, my hand slightly raised, either in greeting, or as if I were about to open the door and leave.