They met on a rooftop this time. Neutral territory.
Ashray lit a cigarette—his first in four years. He offered it to her. She took it without a word and inhaled like she was used to breathing fire.
"I didn't mean to drag you into this," Ira said.
"You didn't drag me. I walked in. Dick first."
She laughed. Softly. Sadly.
"You're not just a fling to me," she said, exhaling smoke into the dark sky. "But you're not an exit either."
"Then what am I?"
"I'm still figuring that out."
Ashray studied her. She looked tired. Less goddess, more ghost.
"You're married to someone powerful, aren't you?" he asked.
"Not powerful. Just dangerous in a boring way."
"You're scared of him."
She didn't respond.
He leaned in, closer. "You're writing about me. Why?"
"I had to put it somewhere."
"I'm not your confession booth, Ira."
"You were never supposed to read it."
"But I did."
And now he couldn't unread it. Couldn't unfeel what those words did to him.
They passed the cigarette back and forth, like guilt in vapor form.
Finally, Ira said, "If I vanish, don't come looking for me."
He stared at her.
"I mean it," she added.
He flicked the cigarette off the roof. Watched the ember fall.
"Too late."