“Old loves and young hearts,” she says.

The car speeds along a dark road, swerving side to side, erratic.

The driver of the car is a man, fifty, sixty years of age. His clothes are worn, his hair not as thick as it used to be, its dark colour a vanity exposed by the tiny dots of white in his moustache. He is crying, as he drives, too quickly, along the dark road.

In the beam of his headlights, there is an animal, standing still and staring straight at the light. It is biting onto something, bright and red in its jaws. Its eyes glitter as it reflects the light, and he realises, as he jams the brakes, that it is a wolf.

The car swerves, and there is a tree before him, too close.

And his life flashes before his eyes.

“Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me the story again.”

“Which one?”

“You know which one. My favourite.”

“The wolf and the sheep?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, Little John.”

And the wind passes by-and-by.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you more,” she replies.

She giggles, and he laughs, and the beating of young hearts is full of promise, and the strange colour of hope.

“You have to meet my parents at some point,” he says.

“John, please. Don’t make me,” Red pleads. Her hand squeezes his, and he jerks away.

“Oww!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She looks away.

The young man is a head taller than her, and he has to bend forward for his eyes to meet hers. His face softens as their gazes connect. “Come on,” he says, “You can’t avoid this forever, lots of people are bad with parents, but… just the once, okay?”

“Don’t make me,” she pleads.

“Just the once. For me. Please.”

She can’t tear away her gaze, and her heart melts as he smiles. He is nodding at her.

“That’s settled then,” he says, “We’d better go, we’re almost late for the movie.”

As he drags her away, she realises, to her increasing horror, that she had nodded when he had.

“The elevator just left,” he says.

“Let’s take the stairs,” she replies.

He follows her into the stairwell, dimly lit and deserted, smelling of stale air. They climb upwards, step by step.

“Hey,” he says.

She stops and looks over her shoulder.

He is standing on a landing, and, as she stands a step above him, their faces are level. His large hands almost encircle her small waist as he turns her around to face him.

Her coat is a deep red, its hood lined with white fur. The hood is pulled low over her face, the fur contrasting against two strands of auburn hair, framing her shadowed face with white and red.

With an arm around her waist, he reaches with his other hand, under her hood, to hold on to her neck, and pulls her towards him as he leans forward into a kiss.

Her tongue is running over his lips as the hand that is holding her neck moves downward, to the zipper of her coat. The kiss holds as he pulls her zipper down, as his hand slide under the cloth, around her side to the small of her back, as he moves his elbow forwards, pulling her coat open as he aligns his arm with his hand.

The kiss breaks as he leans back. “You’re eighteen, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, darling,” she replies.

“That means you’ve stopped growing, right?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, the amusement in her smile lighting up her eyes.

“Well, I’m just saying, bigger tits –”

Her eyebrow arches.

“Maybe,” he adds.

“Well, darling, maybe you need to stop playing with them,” her face tilts slightly down, her eyes flicking downward for emphasis.

His thumb continues slowly rubbing her nipple as he shakes his head, “Yeah, no, I don’t think that’d help.”

He smiles as he looks down at her breast. He doesn’t see as she rolls her eyes, and his smile widens as she pulls her zipper down further, then pulls her coat free from her other breast.

He is grinning as his other hand reaches up. “I’m only saying,” he states, “for your own good, you know. I only have your welfare at heart.”

“Of course, darling. I’m sure you do,” she nods.

“Turn around,” he says, as he pulls her zipper open the rest of the way, releasing it from its catch.

“You wanna fuck now?”

“Yup.”

She turns on the step, holding on to the railing for support as she leans forwards.

He flips her coat onto her back.

“You’re,” she says, as she sets her feet apart, “not going to tell me to grow some hair down there, are you?”

“Nope. That’s one thing you’ve managed to do right.”

As he unbuttons his jeans with one hand, he rubs his thumb along her slit with the other. She is, she realises with annoyance, incredibly turned-on, and the way he slips his thumb inside her, just barely inside her, annoyed her all the more.

“Stop teasing,” she pleads, “be a fucking man.”

“Nice,” he says. And then he is inside her, thrusting hard and fast, and the little explosions cloud her mind.

When he is done, he slowly pulls out of her, and she turns around, lowering herself until her open mouth is in line with his crotch. She pulls him into her mouth, licking him until he backs away.

She stands up, going down the step to join him on the landing, flapping her coat to remove any dust. She nods at where she had stood, where drops of his semen lay on the step. “Little Johns,” she giggles.

“I saw this porno once,” he says, as she reattaches the zipper of her coat, “where the girl licked up the cum from the floor.”

“Do you want me to?” she asks.

“Nah. Girls playing with cum only works in porn,” he says, as he takes her hand and they continue to ascend the steps. “See, after I cum, I no longer care about sex, so you can’t have a real life scenario with that particular act, unless it’s someone else’s cum, and that’s just weird.”

“I could keep your cum in a glass and put it in the fridge and play with it the next time we fuck,” she says.

“How brilliant!”

“You think so?”

“No, darling. It’s the absolute dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

“You’re lucky I love you, you know, because no other girl is going to suffer through the humiliations you put me through.”

“It’s a good thing you enjoy the abuse, then.”

“I don’t. I enjoy making you happy, and that’s totally different.”

He laughs, “And so it is. ‘Little Johns,’ you said.”

“What about it?”

“My father used to call me that. His name is John, too.”

“That’d make you ‘John Three’, then?”

“No,” he shakes his head sadly, “Unfortunately not.”

She giggles, “You’re a peach.”

They climb the steps in silence, until they reach their floor.

“Hey,” he says.

She turns her head, “Yeah?”

“You’re crazy, you know that? You should be committed.”

“I think so. A wee bit crazy.”

“I love you.”

“No kidding, genius.”

“My father,” he says, “used to tell me this story. There were these sheep, see, in the sky. And a wolf appeared. The wolf pretended to be a sheep. The sheep would jump over the moon, and the wolf did so too. It turns out that the wolf had so much fun that he decided to remain as a sheep.”

“That’s a pretty story,” she says.

“I keep thinking of the story, and how he’d tell it to me, whenever I couldn’t sleep. I miss him, my Dad. We used to be close. He seems far away now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My family has always lived in this town, generations of us. He wants me to take over the family business. I want to get my degree, leave. It’s such a big world, out there. It’s such a small town, in here. I told him that, and I don’t think he’s forgiven me for it.”

“‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.’”

“What?”

“You have to choose which path to take.”

“That’s why I’ve been thinking of the story, see? Do you think it’s possible for a wolf to live as a sheep? If it really wanted to? To deny it’s own nature because it wants something badly enough?”

“Is it in your nature to leave or to stay?”

“I’m not sure. Either way, I have to deny something. I have to choose what is more important. Right now, it’s like he’s become someone else.”

“The wolf can live as a sheep,” she says, “if it really wants to.”

“You agreed,” he says.

“I know, it’s just…” her voice fades away.

“Listen,” he flatly states, “I don’t ask anything from you…”

“I know that,” she mews, “you don’t, and you’re a perfect boy, and I’m being such a bitch, and… it’s just…”

“You are being such a bitch. You really are.”

He turns around.

And he walks off.

And her heart breaks.

“It’s only dinner,” he says, looking into her eyes, “Just go in, eat, and walk out.”

“Okay,” she nods, “It’s only dinner. Walk in, walk out.”

Before meeting him, she had removed the pins from her hair, then stuck each hairpin through the corner of a pocket, leaving their metal heads within the pocket itself. She closed her hands around the heads, finding reassurance in clenching them. They would be there if she was too nervous. This is going to be painfully awkward.

Reluctantly, she let go of them, let her arms dangle hopelessly at her sides.

The smile freezes on her face as they walk through the door, and stays in place as she greets his father, as she is guided into the kitchen to say hello to his mom. She says her thanks after his mother tells her that she is pretty. And then, in a rush, she is standing in his room, the door is closed behind her, and she finds herself taking a deep breath. Her hands are in her pockets, now, and she didn’t know when she had put them there.

She had never been in his room before, and she looks around the clutter. He sits down on the bed, watching her.

She scans the titles of his books. Her finger settles upon the spine of a book, “Darling? You actually read this rubbish?” she asks.

He looks up, sees where she is pointing at, and laughs, “I did.”

“It makes no sense,” she says, as she sits down next to him.

“You’ve read it too, then?”

“No. I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“It’s not worth reading.”

“Then why did you?”

“I didn’t know it was not worth reading until I read it.”

“I don’t like all the hype it gets.”

“It doesn’t deserve it; it doesn’t deserve the hate it gets, either.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says, submissive, dismissive.

They speak, for a while, the familiarity of their conversation easing her anxiety, and then it is time for dinner.

His father addresses her as she sits down, “Your hood, pull it down.”

“Excuse me?” she replies, puzzled.

“Your hood,” he says, gesturing, “it’s rude to cover your head at the table.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, modified by the small chastisement. She pulls down her hood, her hair flowing down behind her. She keeps her eyes on the table in front of her.

“Aren’t you hot?” his mother asks, “Why don’t you remove your coat?”

“She never removes it,” John replies, “It’s kinda her thing.”

She feels odd without her hood over her eyes, the world looked different, a little too bright. Around her, John’s family talks as if she isn’t there, and she makes no effort to join the sporadic conversation, the only time she speaks to compliment his mother on her cooking.

And then it is over.

She helps bring the dishes into the kitchen, returns to the living room.

“He goes to the same bar, every night after dinner,” John offers, explaining his absent father, “He seemed quiet tonight though, he usually talks more.”

“I should go soon,” she says.

“I was thinking you could stay here tonight.”

She smiles. “Okay, darling,” she says, “as long as I get to hide in your room.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, I have no intention of letting you go.”

And the wind passes by-and-by.

“Is there a story,” he muses, “where the sheep lives as a wolf?”

“I know of one,” she replies, “A nobleman, unjustly dispossessed of his lands, who becomes a robber in the woods.”

“Oh?”

“Robbed the rich to give to the poor?”

“Ah, yes. Robin Hood.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A robin is a bird, with a bright red breast.”

“Only in America; the robins in Europe have orange breasts.”

“Ah. I was just thinking though, if it were red, wouldn’t his name mean ‘red hood’?”

She laughs, “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a robber.”

“Why not?” he smiles, “After all, you stole my heart.”

She giggles, and smacks him gently on his arm, “You’re a peach.”

“I mean it, though,” he says, his voice serious and certain, “I’ll die for you.”

And the wind passes by-and-by.

“A Bloody Mary,” she says.

Red sits at the bar, an elbow upon its surface. She rests her chin upon her palm, the tips of her fingers lightly tapping her face. She looks about the room, then sees, to her right, the man who is sitting a few seats away. He is staring at her.

And then he suddenly looks away.

She looks at him. He looks at his drink.

He is an old man, by the standards of the young. Old but not ancient, by the standards of the young. His clothes are worn, his hair not as thick as it used to be, its white strands mixing with the dark ones.

Her drink comes, and she takes a slow sip. Places it carefully in front of her. She keeps her eyes on it.

She had thought this through, but, right now, she couldn’t speak. She had watched him, night after night, for a week, as he entered this bar. She had imagined what to say. She had a plan, but, right now, she couldn’t speak.

As she thinks, her fingers start to twirl a strand of her hair. This is what they do not understand, those who like meeting new people; they think that the shyness that they feel is the same for everyone, and can be overcome. They do not understand that the shyness, for her, is a fear, a fear so great and so subtle as to be a paralysis. Just talk, they say, how hard is that? And it’s not hard at all, just as it is not hard to eat a cockroach, except that your body just refuses to do so.

He gets off his chair, crosses the distance between them, takes the seat next to hers. She turns to face him.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she replies, her soft voice even softer.

“I used to know a girl, who did exactly that… what you did, with the hair,” he twirls a finger in the air.

“Ohh,” she says, turning back to her drink, “Lots of girls do this, I think.”

“She always wore red, too. You must think I’m really strange. Seeing you here, you remind me of her, I just wanted to say that. Goodbye.”

“No. Please, stay. I don’t mean to be rude. What should I call you?”

“John, John is fine.”

The old man and the young girl sit in silence, for a moment.

Finally, she speaks, “Tell me about her, this girl I look like.”

He smiles, a bittersweet smile with a sadness in his tired eyes. He turns back to his drink, takes a sip. “She was,” he says, “a long long time ago. There’s nothing to tell, really.”

She nods, keeps quiet.

“How’s the weather?” he asks.

She laughs, and she notices that smile and that sadness return to his eyes as he watches her. “The weather’s fine.”

They talk, and as they do, her shyness fades, and her voice comes easily to her again.

They talk about oceans, and miniature golf. They talk about dreams, and space pirates, and 80s music, and if kings gave out bags of gold.

And he makes her laugh.

And each time she laughs, the sadness returns to his eyes.

He tells her of his wife, his son, the things he is proud of, the family he has built. She does not ask why he didn’t go home to them, as the night sped onward, and he didn’t offer a reason or an excuse.

They talk until the bar closes, and they are standing on the street.

They talk as they go looking for somewhere to eat, as they walk.

“–of lefties injure themselves or die from using something intended for a right-handed person,” she says, and then she realises that he is no longer walking beside her. She turns and sees him a few steps behind her, standing still, staring at something across the street.

There is nothing there – It is an empty street, lit by street lamps, tall buildings reaching for the sky, no different from any other street in this part of this city. She walks back towards him, slowly, her head tilted in her puzzlement.

She stands next to him; both of them, side by side, looking across that empty street.

“There is something perverse,” he says, “about an old man and a young woman.”

“Oh hush, there isn’t. Lots of old men have trophy wives, younger than their own children.”

“That’s true. And it’d be okay, I think, borderline acceptable, if the old man were rich and powerful, in a sharp suit.”

“All men, old or not, want to be with young women. It’s only human.”

“Maybe I am old. Serial killers, see? When I was young, there weren’t any serial killers. There were murderers, I suppose, but no serial killers. And, then, suddenly, there were. Serial killers. Then books about them, and movies. And then they weren’t horrific anymore, I mean, real serial killers were still horrible, and sensational, and all over the news, but they weren’t horrific anymore. They were no longer the stuff of nightmares.”

“Okay,” she says, as she looks about, at the deserted street, where there is nothing to be seen.

“Now, it’s paedophiles. It’s old men who’ve trapped their daughter in the basement, who drive around schools, who chat them up on the Internet. Priests! Holy men. That’s the stuff of nightmares, now.”

“This is silly,” she says.

And then she sees what he sees. The glass wall of the building across the street is a giant mirror, and in it stood a tired, defeated man, drab and grey and old, and a young girl, tiny and bright and red.

“What am I doing with a girl young enough to be my daughter?”

“I’m older than I look. And what you are doing is finding me something to eat.”

“Maybe I should go,” he says, as her hand finds his.

“Is this better?” she asks, as her fingers intertwines with his.

They are silent, for a moment, looking at the pair standing across the street – hand in hand.

“No,” he decides.

“Should I leave?” she asks.

“No,” he decides.

“Then can we find some food? Please?”

And they walk.

“Do you,” he asks, “still want to know about the girl that you look like?”

“If you’ll tell me.”

“Thirty, almost forty years ago, she was the love of my life. She only wore what you’re wearing right now, and we used to walk, down the roads at night, and I don’t believe I’m saying this, but you even sound like her,” he gives a small laugh, a disbelief. “Well, thirty years ago, I would have married her. And, one day, she stopped answering the phone. For days I called her, but it was like she was gone. I wrote her a letter, and I slid it under her door, and I told her… I don’t know what I told her, but I remember telling her I would wait for her, at the bar where we always met.”

She looks up at him.

And she sees the sadness return to his eyes, and flow down, quietly, slowly, in a single drop, down the side of his cheek.

And they walk.

“A Caesar salad,” she says.

She hands the menu over to the waitress and turns to find him looking at her. She smiles.

“I thought you were hungry,” he says.

“I am.”

“A salad just seems a little… light.”

“I like croutons. They are delicious.”

His coffee and her tea arrives, and they busy themselves with the sugar and the stirring.

“What you said earlier,” she begins.

“Mmm?”

“People are like jigsaw pieces. Love at first sight isn’t possible, that’s just lust. And being together is more, much more, than that. We have emptinesses within us, empty cups that we don’t even know ourselves, and the trick is to find someone who can fill us up. You know what the lie is?”

“What is the lie?”

“The lie is this – that each time we get our hearts broken, we learn more about relationships, and have a better shot at the next one. And it is a lie because each time you find someone new, everything you learnt is worthless. Everything! You think you’ve become a better person, but you may have made yourself worse for your new mate, because not everybody wants the same thing, not everyone has the same empty cups. Some girls will leave you the moment you hit them, some girls will never leave you as long as you keep on hitting them.”

He nods.

“The thing is,” she continues, “every rich and powerful man can trade in his wife for a younger model, but not all of them do. Because their current wife fills them up perfectly. And, a rich man can probably get what he wants from a girl without having to marry her, so maybe he marries her because she fills him up perfectly, and his old wife couldn’t.”

“And that’s your philosophy on love? Jigsaw pieces looking for their perfect match? You’re young and idealistic.”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Love is about compromise,” he counters, “About giving in as much as you can. And if you can’t give in anymore, that’s when you find someone else. Love is when you find someone you don’t have to give in all that much to. That’s it. It’s not true that you don’t learn anything, you learn what you’re willing to give, how much you’re willing to give, and, if the new person wants the same thing as the old, you have an easier time giving it. We’re not jigsaw pieces looking for someone to fit, we’re pieces that can change ourselves, looking for someone we’re willing to change for. That’s it.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You are old and cynical.”

“Yeah, well.”

“And the young wives?”

“They require less giving in.”

“What if the old wife doesn’t require any giving in?”

“Ahh, but she’s old. And lacks novelty. So he has to give in on that. He doesn’t have to give in to her, he has to give in to himself. It’s still giving in.”

“So it’s all a matter of finding the cheapest suit? Like a business? Dollars and cents and getting the best deal.”

“Yes.”

“Old and cynical.”

“Young and idealistic.”

“Oh hush. I’m older than I look. And I want my salad now.”

He is lying on his chest on the bed, next to her. His face is turned towards her, his eyes closed as he sleeps.

Behind him, the rising sun had turned the drapes a pastel blue.

She leaves the bed, walks around it, pulls the blanket over him, places her hand upon his neck.

She stands there, feeling his heart in her hand.

She walks to the only chair in the room, sits down, and looks at him as he sleeps. At his neck and his heart and his life.

And the seconds tick by.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

And the seconds tick by.

“I missed you too,” she whispers back.

“Lolli,” he says.

“Yeah.”

And the seconds tick by.

“It can’t be,” he says.

She stands up, walks towards him. “Scoot,” she says.

He moves over, turning onto his back, and she slides under the blanket next to him. On her side, she runs her fingers down his arm, curls over his hand, and he pulls her towards him, until she is half-over him, her chin settling down in the crook of his neck.

He adjusts himself, as she settles. His hand moves over her arm, and he feels her scars, a roughness on her smooth skin in the shape of a crescent.

“It can’t be,” he repeats.

She remains silent, and the seconds tick by.

“I have to go,” he says at last.

And he doesn’t look at her as he picks up his clothes, as he goes into the washroom to get dressed. He takes a long time.

And he doesn’t look at her as he stops, one hand upon the knob of the door. “Goodbye,” he says.

And he doesn’t look at her as he leaves.

She turns onto her back, settling into the warmth he had left behind in the bed, and she looks up at the ceiling.

She doesn’t wipe away her tears, there are simply too many of them to bother.

“A Bloody Mary,” she says.

She doesn’t look at him. And he doesn’t look at her.

They sit there, as strangers would, for half-an-hour.

She watches him, for the second time that day, walk out the door.

Another night comes, and she enters the bar minutes after him, and takes her seat.

Another night passes, without a word exchanged between them.

On the third night, he comes over, and he sits in the seat beside hers.

She looks at him, and waits, and looks away. He doesn’t looks up from his drink.

He pays for her drink, when he pays for his, and then she watches as, once again, he walks away.

The night after that, the bartender places her drink in front of her as she sits down.

He comes to her, and sits, and asks, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Then why are you here?”

“You said that love was about giving in. I’m giving in.”

“I want to ask you to prove it, I want to ask you to tell me something that only both of us know, but I don’t remember us anymore. I don’t have the questions to the answers I need. What then?”

“I remember that you made me happy.”

“Thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years ago. And a few nights ago. Just a few.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, and if you were the girl from that night… things might be different, but you’re not. You are… someone who shouldn’t be.”

They sit in silence. Then he gulps down the last of his drink and gestures for their bill.

“I will,” she quickly says, “I’ll do anything you want. John, please. Just don’t…”

He glances at the bill, takes out his wallet, a credit card, waits, signs the bill, pockets the receipt. He stands up.

He turns to find her eyes pleading. “Just don’t what?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says, “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Good,” he says.

And he walks off.

And her heart breaks.

When she enters the bar on the next night, he is seated on the seat next to hers. Her drink is already on the bar.

“I’m married,” he says, as she sits down.

“I know,” she replies.

“What is it that you want?”

“Nothing,” she says.

He stares at his drink and he lets out a long, drawn out sigh.

They sit in silence.

Once again, he sighs, and he nods a small nod, and he turns to her, “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Let’s walk.”

And the wind passes by-and-by.

“Why are you doing this?” he says, “You’re married. You have a child. Why are you doing this?”

He looks at his face in the bathroom mirror, at the lines that didn’t used to be there, at how worn it looked.

“This isn’t you. You’re not like this. Why are you doing this?”

He turns away from the mirror, opens the bathroom door, and walks out to where the young girl is sitting on the bed, her legs under the covers, her small breasts uncovered, red in her hands.

She looks up at him and she smiles, brilliantly. “I’m knitting you a scarf, darling,” she says, holding up a small red square, trailing threads of red and red.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his back towards her, as she lies languidly upon the sheets.

“I have a question,” he says.

“Ask it,” she says.

“And this question, it’s always been there, but I didn’t ask it because if I did, it meant that you would go away, and so I just pretended it wasn’t there. Pretended I couldn’t see it.

“I don’t know why I am drawn back to you every single time. Every time we’ve met, I swore it was our last.

“I’m lying to my wife, and that hurts me so much that I have to pretend that I’m not doing it. And now I have a double life, I am two different people, one of me with you, and one of me with her. And maybe that’s why I can’t continue pretending the question isn’t there any more. Because I cannot continue being two people. I don’t know.

“I once loved a girl who only ever wore a red coat, and then she disappears. Forty years later, my son walks in with his girlfriend for dinner, and it turns out she’s a girl who only ever wears a red coat. But who would remember their love, a lifetime after? I didn’t. And if you had left that night, I probably never would. But you walk into the bar I’ve always gone to, even after I had forgotten that you were the reason I’ve always went there, and you sit down. And you made me remember.

“I don’t even want to know who or what you are. I have so many thoughts that that doesn’t even seem important at all.

“Is there enough space in one heart for two loves? It seems to me that if you try to fit two loves into one heart, that heart has to break.

“All this pretending, I keep thinking of a story. When I was young, my father used to tell it to me, about a wolf pretending to a sheep. When I had a son, I told it to him.

“This is my question: You’re still seeing Junior, aren’t you?”

“Junior?” she asks.

“My son, John.”

“You are John,” she says, perplexed.

“There was a truth in front of me and I pretended it wasn’t there. I’ve been cheating on my wife with my son’s girlfriend and I pretended it wasn’t happening, because, God help me, I think his girlfriend was the same girl I fell in love with forty years ago.”

“I am,” she says.

“But you’re still seeing John.”

“What are you talking about? You’re John,” she insists.

“I know you’re still seeing him, because, God help me, he’s happy; I see him smiling, this wide, crazy grin, and it’s like I’m looking into a mirror, this was me, thirty years ago.”

She reaches out to touch his elbow, and he jerks his arm away.

“Don’t,” he says, “It seems to me that if you try to fit two loves into one heart, that heart has to break. You’ve got to choose. If you choose me, then I’ll choose you.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, almost in tears, “What are you talking about? Choose what?”

“Me or Junior.”

“I choose you,” she says.

He turns to her, and sees the confusion on her face, the hurt, as if she doesn’t understand what he is saying.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asks.

“I don’t know.”

They sit in silence, for a while.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she offers.

“You allowed an old man to dream that he could be young again, be part of a love story that, perhaps, he has been waiting his entire life to be a part of. How reckless are you, how irresponsible, how very young, to expect to play with someone’s heart and not hurt them.

“You’re a monster of the worst sort, because, like a child killing a bug, you see no harm in what you do. You do not even know it, when you inflict the unkindest cut.

“You know the only thing that I disliked about you? The one single thing? You dislike the things that you dislike too much. You carry a resentment and you let it out on the things that you dislike, as if they were responsible for whatever it is that you’re angry about. It feels like you’re angry all the time, underneath; far underneath, but always waiting to surface. And maybe that’s why you do what you do, because you’ve been hurt, so you can’t even tell anymore if it’s okay to hurt someone. Like something was taken from you, and it becomes okay to take things from other people.

“You’re all soft and eager to please, but you hide your face. So that you can be who you wish to be, instead of who you are. So that you can be treated how you wish to be, instead of how you’re supposed to be. Instead of how you deserve to be.

“And, still, I love you, and I can’t blame you at all, because this dream you gave me, these past few weeks, were the best I’ve had in a very long time. Happiness is wanting something, and then getting it. The more you want it, the happier you are when you get it. And I looked forward to seeing you, and I saw you. And I looked forward to talking to you, and then we spoke. And I was happier that I have been in a very long time.

“But you have to choose. Me or Junior.”

“I choose you,” she repeats, nodding as the tears flowed from her plaintive eyes.

She didn’t hesitate, as if she is just giving him the answer that he wants to hear, as if she just wants him to stop. As if… as if… she doesn’t even understand what he is saying.

“Me or Junior,” he repeats.

“You! You! I don’t know who Junior is! John, please, stop saying such things.”

“You can’t tell us apart,” he realises.

“I don’t understand! John, stop this, please.”

“You’re a wolf, pretending to be a sheep, so that you can live as a sheep.”

He pauses.

“My father told me that story,” he realises.

And the full horror descends upon him.

“My father told me that story,” he repeats, “It’s not a story, it’s a warning. I’m supposed to be dead, aren’t I? You didn’t come back for me, you came back for Junior.”

He stands up, and he backs away from the crying girl. Her mouth opens, as if she had something to say, but no words come out.

“I’m torn apart because I’m screwing my son’s girlfriend, but you, you have been… Jesus. How long have you been doing this? That’s why you can’t tell us apart. Every forty years, you come back, and then I’m young again, slightly different, but… Oh my God. You’re a monster.”

“Stop it!” she screams, as he backs away from her. She brings her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly with her arms.

“An immortal girl. I’ve been screwing my father’s girlfriend? My grandfather’s?”

He stumbles as he backs into the wall.

“This has to end,” he says, and, his hands shaking, he grabs his pants off the floor, casts open the door, and runs out.

She is on her knees, upon the bed, her arms hopelessly at her sides. Even as the tears flow down her cheeks, there is a hardness in her eyes.

“You are not John.” she declares, to the open door, “You’re not the man I love. You are not John.”

The car speeds along a dark road, swerving side to side, erratic.

The driver of the car is a man, fifty, sixty years of age. His clothes are worn, his hair not as thick as it used to be, its dark colour a vanity exposed by the tiny dots of white in his moustache. He is crying, as he drives, too quickly, along the dark road.

In the beam of his headlights, there is an animal, standing still and staring straight at the light. It is biting onto something, bright and red in its jaws. Its eyes glitter as it reflects the light, and he realises, as he jams the brakes, that it is a wolf.

The car swerves, and there is a tree before him, too close.

And his life flashes before his eyes.

He is looking at the face of the girl that he loves. He has to apologise to her, for hurting her, this soft, harmless girl.

He is looking at the face of the girl that will destroy all that he loves. He has to rush home, to protect his son, to protect his wife, to protect his family from this cruel, unkind monster.

Tears are flowing down her cheeks, but her eyes are hard and harsh. Behind her, through the trees, he can see the moon, a semicircle, bright in the night sky.

“You are not John,” she says, over and over.

She says it as she unwraps the half-knitted scarf and picks up her hairpin. She says it as she pulls the car door open.

“You are not John,” she says, as she slides the pin into his neck.

“I don’t know what I’d do if not for you,” he says.

“I’m here, John,” she says, “I’ll always be. Always.”

“I realise something now.”

“Yes?”

“The wolf can live as a sheep, if it really wants to. But its heart will always beat as a wolf’s.”

He squeezes her hand once, and he lets go.

The young man walks to the front of the crowd.

“My father,” he says, “was a good man. He always took the road less travelled. No, wait. Before I continue, just give me a moment to say some words to him. Dad, I’m sorry I let you down. I’ll stay, of course I’ll stay.

“‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I. I took the one less travelled by.’”

He pauses, overwhelmed by emotion, and his teary eyes look across the crowd, all dressed in black.

“I’ll try and be the man you were. I’ll walk down that road you took.”

And he, too, wears black, except for a scarf, wrapped around his neck, two lines diverging downward, deeply, darkly –

Red.

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