Henry is driving. His fingers, clad in black leather gloves, grasp the gearstick, and he looks a bit nervous. The glasses slide down his nose, revealing a scar near his temple that he makes no effort to hide, along with a barely perceptible flush of embarrassment on his well-defined cheekbones. He has been talking for an hour about Lethe, the river of oblivion, but you know he's not trying to forget the past; he's trying to forget himself—himself-as-a-god, himself-as-a-tyrant, himself-as-a-ghost.

You silently point to the back seat, drowned in yellow mimosas.

“It's not a metaphor,” he says, his voice dry. “Just a botanical anomaly. I did rather… I really wanted to see your smile.”

A sweet love song flows from the cassette player at a gentle volume—unusual. He pulls a map out of the glovebox, creased where he has been running his finger over it for too long, and hands it to you. A red circle around the lake north of Hampden is his version of let's run away.

On the edges of the map, in rough curls, are scribbled ‘turn at the oak,’ ‘bridge over the stream,’ ‘exit to the lake’—and between the lines, in small handwriting: ‘don't let Her freeze.’

The road is changing: instead of buildings, pine trees writhe along the sides. He turns onto a country road and switches off the engine.

“Here.” He takes off his glasses, wiping them with the edge of his scarf (forest green—your gift from Christmas), and you notice, for the first time, that he has freckles, and oh—Oh. “Winter ice doesn't take this lake. They say at the bottom—”

For a moment, silence.

Reaching to adjust his glasses, your fingers glide over the cold, horn-rimmed frame, softly brushing the warm skin by his temple. In a sudden gesture, he seizes your hand and presses your palm to his cheek.

“Why mimosas?”

“They hold their shape, even when they become nothing.” His warm lips brush a tremulous kiss against the centre of your open palm. “You're shaking,” he observes.

“Cold.”

“Liar.” Henry leans in, his lips grazing your temple. “May I kiss you?”