They stood in the parking lot of the faculty housing complex in the September morning air. The trees were just beginning to turn — the first faint blush of orange at the edges of things, the season declaring itself tentatively, the way it always did, and then all at once.
He could smell woodsmoke from somewhere. The light was the gold September light, the same as the day he had first seen her in the faculty lounge window, which he recognized now as not a coincidence but a loop — the season completing itself, the year described.
He said: 'I'll come to New York for the premiere. In October.'
She said: 'I'd like that very much.'
He said: 'Call me when you get there.'
She said: 'I will.'
He said: 'Mara.'
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were clear. She was not going to cry — not here, not in the parking lot in the morning light. She had done her crying privately, he suspected, the way she did the private things. Now she was in the composed and forward-facing place of someone who has made their choice and is at peace with its cost.
He kissed her once more, briefly, on the cheek. She turned and got into the car.
The car reversed, pulled forward, and moved toward the parking lot exit. At the exit she stopped, and for a moment he thought she was going to get out — but she only raised her hand briefly, visible through the rear window, a small clear gesture, and then the car turned and was gone.
He stood in the parking lot.
The woodsmoke drifted past. The gold light moved through the trees. A squirrel ran across the lot and stopped to look at him with the blank judgment of small animals, and then continued.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he went back to his apartment. Her coffee mug was still on his shelf. He looked at it for a moment. He left it where it was. He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and began to write.