He was worried that to waver in his speech might give the impression of indecision or regret, and that she would exploit this exposed flank – wheedle her own, better-chosen words into the gaps between his so that the things he wanted would come to seem immature, bordering on incoherent. Moreover, he was worried that she would prevail upon him to agree. So he planned ahead.

He learned off the words he’d prepared until their glossy finish of common sense was indistinguishable from the coarser fibres of his underlying feelings, like a hardwood veneer on MDF. He practised his delivery until it sounded practised, then practised it some more until it didn’t. When he arrived at the café – late enough to seem apathetic, but not so late as to seem vindictive – he ensured that the formalities were observed with all due formality and that the niceties weren’t too nice. Then he said what he had to say, loud enough to be emphatic but not so loud as to sound hysterical, promptly but not hurriedly. He said it with affection too, but just a mote—enough to convey sincerity. Enough to add depth and clarity to the stronger sense of coldness. To demonstrate how the greater part of his affection for her had simply withered away untended. Once he finished, he was surprised to notice that she was crying.

He was reminded of a scalpel gliding through human skin – the seeming plasticity of the flesh as it peels apart ...