Last year, when I came to your door, you shook your head and let me in. I sprawled on your couch as you settled in the armchair on the other side of the room. You ignored me and read from a giant book, spread across your lap. Eventually you glanced up.

Do people realize there isn't love anymore? you asked.

Do they care? I said.

You tapped at the page on your knees. Shakespeare, you told me. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

No, I answered. Please.

You chuckled.

I let out a dramatic sigh.

Romance was over a long time ago, I insisted.

I was joking and I thought you would laugh, but your gaze slithered across another line of poetry. You said: That might be true.