Standing in line at the store, she looks and sees him checking out a couple of rows over. He makes his purchase and begins walking toward the door. Discreetly, she slips in beside him and, calling him by name, explains that they’ve met before, although he probably doesn’t remember it—he meets so many people.

They pause for a moment just outside the doors to continue their conversation. He is cordial and friendly. Things are going to work out.

Then she glances up and spots the car—they are being watched.

As unobtrusively as possible, she begins walking again, leading him by the arm and talking rapidly. Have they been noticed? The car is pulling out, following slowly but maintaining its distance. They round the corner and slip back in a side door. He calls for a car.

They move through the store to the back and exit through a loading bay into a waiting car. The driver whisks them away as they continue speaking, intent only on each other.

They arrive at a small, nondescript hotel. In the room, she explains what she needs from him. A very small thing—is he willing?

Yes, more than willing. And he does remember, more, he understands. He doesn’t judge. He folds her into his embrace, finds her mouth with his, and for a little while, everything else is gone. Lost. Overshadowed by the moment.

She hasn’t been swept away like this in years. Perhaps never. So sweet, to be lost in him this way, even for a moment. Even if it cannot possibly last or ever be repeated.

Later, there is more talk, more intimacy. It seems to her, perhaps to them both, more warmth and tenderness than passion. Somehow this is better, more fulfilling.

Afterward, she will be unable to recall details, but the feeling of gentle affection and concern remains clear. She recalls lying together, completely safe and at ease, speaking softly, touching, laughing together. She remembers warm, slow, silky hands gently rubbing fragrant oil into her back, her shoulders.

The anonymity of the room is a wonder and a comfort, separating them from the world and from the details of their own lives. This brief time is perfect in the eye of memory.

Then the scene shifts. Something has changed. They are standing in the doorway of the room, bathed in harsh light from the hallway. A crowd has gathered outside, it seems. He steps out, arguing quietly but intently with the hotel manager. She cannot make out the words.

A woman comes to her then, trying to draw her away. She must not be seen here. She must come upstairs with the woman to another suite until the situation is resolved.

No. She can’t leave him like this. This will be her only chance to say a proper goodbye.

The woman makes assurances: her things will be brought to her. And he will come to her, too, as soon as things can be cleared up.

But she knows this is a lie. She pleads and struggles with the woman, trying to go to him. If she can be near him everything will be alright. She stares at him stolidly, desperately, willing him to look at her.

At last he does, and as their eyes meet she feels despair settling over her like a blanket of snow. What she sees in his eyes is resignation. And regret.

She breaks free of the hands that are holding her for an instant and tries to run to him. But she is caught again, restrained. She never breaks contact with those distant, sorrowful eyes. They meet her own steadily.

Here the memory is fading, ebbing like an ocean wave running away from a deserted beach into darkness.