Wrap your hands around my neck, you say.

Here? I ask, gesturing at the woods we are in. Now?

You close your eyes and open your arms wide like Jesus on the cross. You signal me to hurry. Come on, give it your best shot.

I hesitate before taking one step closer. Branches crunch under my feet. I stop a foot shy of your delicate bone structure. I bask in all your Pisces-ness. I hold the caps of your shoulders and squeeze them hard.

What are you doing? you say, peeking an eye open.

My arms ease into a hug. I want to tell you this is not at all different from what we have been doing for all these years. Say one thing and hear another. That we are not the same people anymore. These days, your face looks older, sturdier, like those birch trees we are surrounded by. Like all aging mammals, you show signs of temper and balding around the sides of your hair. The flush of my first kiss-bite on your upper lip has long been replaced by that sorry excuse for a mustache.

God, leave it, you say. 

You’re such a pussy, you say.

You pick up your clothes from the mound of wet leaves at your feet. Your face is purple and ego-bruised. The woods look red and architectural all around us, like a prop for something sinister. We don’t speak a word of what has just happened.

We walk back to the car. We wind down through the mountain road. We slide into the city. We pass by buildings that look like dead batteries in the early moonlight. We pass by the hospital in which you were born. We pass by the hospital in which you’ll soon receive the last round of your treatment.

Hey, I later say in bed, snuggling further toward you. I just couldn’t do it. I’m so sorry.

You roll over to your side and open your eyes. A dog barks somewhere from the outside.

It’s okay, you say, holding my hand without looking back.

Let’s just go to sleep, you say.