The enormous vastness of the sky above had shrunk into shards by the vice-like grip of leaden clouds, advancing from every side in the peripheral in an ill-tempered circle; the monotone rain lingered in the moist, biting air, the methodical drip of the droplets scratching at the surfaces of umbrellas and hastily tarpaulin-wrapped machines.

Richard sat under the prostrated wings of black canvas shielding his poised figure from the cropping rain: the picking on wind did not disturb his tomb-like calm.

Despite you being seated in front of him — right there, in the minute reach, in the very of the vicinity, he paid little mind to your being. The gaze of his arctic eyes remained steadfast away, occupied on the opposite end of the street, the sharp curve of his jaw set as the veins in the pale expanse of his neck stretched taut.

Silence lingered in the air between you, breathed in by the pair of lungs sharing the same unspoken coldness. Your hand rested on the table — uncertain, reluctant as your fingers hovered near his, too irresolute — even guilty, perhaps — to curl around his. He sipped on his ristretto with the signature wintry air of boreal frostiness; your caffe au late remained untouched. Afterwards the aeons which Richard had considered enough time to indulge in observing the way you stewed in your wrongdoing and culpability, he cast the polar gaze of his glacier eyes on you.

“Well?” Came the biting inquiry, the languid, raucous drawl of words rattling the surface of your high-strung composure. He might have as well plunged a honed dagger into the remains of your brittle nerves; now they had scattered, unraveled by his rough tone. “Will you skitter and tiptoe around your apologies for ever? Hasten, I do not hold the whole day in my possession. “