At the bus stop

She's doing all the talking, and she's not talking much. He's giving nothing away. There's an air of desperation in the way she leans into him, pleading. He stands poker-faced with his arms crossed. She steps in and starts to put his arms around his waist, one last attempt. In an immediate, instinctual reaction, he blocks her arms with his hands, preserving the distance between them.

And she's off. She's walking away from him fast, her face dissolving into tears as soon as her back is turned. She keeps her head up, though, and she covers with a hair toss when her hand comes up to wipe her eyes. She makes it halfway down the street before she turns to see if he's following her.

But he's not. He hasn't moved a muscle since she left him at the bus stop. He's standing poker-faced with his arms crossed, giving nothing away.

If I'd been driving, I wouldn't have seen it, but I wasn't, so I did.