The Hallway

There is a version of this where I keep walking.

The hallway is forty feet of marble and bad decisions, and she's standing at the end of it in a dress that costs more than my first car and looks like she hasn't decided whether to stay.

I've spent three months being someone else for her. A driver. A nobody. A man with grease under his nails and no last name worth knowing.

The keeping-walking version is safer. I know this the way I know engines: by sound, by instinct, by the specific quality of the quiet before something breaks.

I stop walking.

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