Deep

We talked about movies. About music. About nothing. I walked her almost to the end of the street that lead to her office. She said she didn't want me to come to the building, in case I was seen. When we were about ten yards from the junction she stopped. She turned to me and said "Well, Mr Harcourt, it was very pleasant to meet you. I'm sorry we couldn't do business."

She held out her hand.

I looked at her for a moment, and for an instant I saw something in her eyes. Fear. Sorrow. Despair. Hope. Pleading.

Did she want me to sweep her in my arms and say I could not leave her like this? Was that what she feared I would do?

Her gaze hardened. A flicker of annoyance. Was it that I had rejected her, not acted quickly enough, should I say something? My hand reached for hers automatically, and I was surprised by the firm, business like grip, the curt handshake, the way she dropped the contact after just a moment.

"Thank you for being so understanding," she said, and gave me the tiniest flicker of a smile. Then her face was set hard, and she whirled away.

She didn't look back. She had a determined stride, and turned the corner smoothly, with head high, looking forward.