The darker days of me and him

She'd written to him recently- something vague one tired evening in the city staring pale and polluted at the screen. She sent the message and forgot about the response. Perhaps she wasn't really writing to him at all; she hadn't for a long time. He read the message in the mountains where the snow was beginning to thaw. He didn't know how to reply; thought of the last time they'd met: Her red unfolded umbrella spokes dripped on the concrete floor of the bar. It was Christmas and they'd both become strangers to the town. She was wearing her white winter coat, her hair had grown long and he could see the dark dye was beginning to fade. He bought two whiskies (with ice) and sat at the table by the stairs watching her as she stood in the glare of the half-empty juke box they'd danced to all those times before looking for something to play. He rolled a cigarette and began to speak about Jean Paul Sartre. When they talked it seemed as though they were both straining to hear one another across the table. Occasionally their eyes met. His were blue. As he spoke she watched his chapped lips and thought of how she had hated him, had told him as much that night in the garden, drunk and she thought of that strange cold kiss planted on her forehead the morning after, so dry it made her shudder- But still she was laughing and said something she remembered about Simone de Beauvoir-a photograph of her and him and a typewriter. She spoke fast. She always spoke fast with him; spoke fast or not at all. And laughed, laughed too loudly (she was well aware) but somehow she just couldn't stop. Stop. They were getting drunk by now and walked up the hill to the cafe she had visited so often as a child. The band were playing Sara by Bob Dylan- 'I laid in the dune and looked at the sky'- He smiled remembering how, when they first met, she had told him that she couldn't sleep without listening to Shelter from the Storm (or was it Tangled up in Blue?) He didn't ask her, poured himself another glass of wine while she went to the bathroom- 'it's all so clear I'll never forget Sara, Sara loving you is one thing---'- She stood at the sink running hot water from gold taps watching as the pink liquid soap washed slowly off her hands. She stood there for a long time, too long and avoided her eyes in the mirror.