David Handler - The burnt orange sunrise

“It’s quite all right,” Mitch assured her, floored. “Only, I don’t speak the language. Did that mean yes or did it mean no?”

For a long moment, Des didn’t answer him. When at last she did, she said, “Mitch, I thought we weren’t going to do this.” Her voice was soft and low. “We made a pact, you and I. That very first night in your living room, after you flicked off the lights. We sealed it with a kiss, remember?”

“I do.” Mitch grinned at her. “I also remember that’s not all we sealed it with.”

“Don’t you dare get all adorable on me right now. You made me a promise, sir. No dwelling on the meaning of us, or the future of us, or if there even is an us. Now did you or did you not promise me that?”

“I absolutely did. And I’m breaking my promise. And I’m sorry. No, actually, I’m not sorry at all. Because I love you, and that’s not something I ever want to feel sorry about. But what we have together just isn’t enough for me anymore. This is not a real complicated deal, Des. Either we love each other or we don’t. We’re both grown-ups. We’ve both been here before.”

“Um, okay, teensy-weensy difference,” she pointed out. “You had a good marriage. I didn’t.”

“That’s the past, Des. That’s Brandon. I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about us. I need more. I want more. The question is, what do you want?”

In response, Des Mitry stared at Mitch intently for a long, long time. Then she turned her head and gazed out the window at the winter sky. She didn’t tell him what she wanted. She didn’t say anything at all.

After that, there was only silence.