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          He heard her sigh; she couldn't help it, staring as she was in the windows, at the empty spaces around her fingers, her wrists, her neck. He didn't even think she noticed what she did, but of course he knew. He was supposed to make those spaces not so empty, but the problem was in his pocket, too.
          They walked by the shops like they always did, her staring in the windows, him at her and down at his feet. Then eventually she noticed his feet dragging a little, and maybe a sigh escaped him, and then she smiled and held his hand. Squeezed a little.
          He walked her home, to her big family home, then he slowly meandered back to his little apartment that he was always embarrassed to show her.
          But despite the doubts that lingered behind the cracked paint and the scratched-up, marked-up walls and the door handle that didn't seem quite attached… they were happy.
          Then the phone rang.
          "Guess who?"
          "Welcome back."

          "Where are we going?"
          "You'll see, you'll see."
          It took place on top of a hill in the midnight scene, the kind of calm when the wind stirs and begins to inhale, bare branches trembling in anticipation.
          I never know, never know where we're going.
          There was a soft hint of murmurs in the distance.
          "What's that?" she asked.
          "There's a festival down by the lake."
          "For what?"
          "Does it matter?"
          What matters?
          "Where are we going?"
          She asked him again. She asked him that question.
          He pressed his finger against her lips. "Nowhere and somewhere important," he smiled and led her further into the park.

          (Yes, it was kind of like a dream.)

          He still had his hand in his coat pocket, fingering the box. No, no… no. No…
          The swan was still gurgling, spraying cool, black water back into the fountain. One of the lamps was out, but the diminished light meant nothing to the world, it seemed.
          "You led me here," she said.
          I know, he wanted to reply. But he hadn't known. He knew that she was beautiful, that they were both young, that this would be the perfect place. A nice, quiet place. A secluded, peaceful place.
          Maybe the man with his face in the fountain was finally peaceful, too.
          He heard it said the Fairy Tale King of Bavaria lived in a daydream and died in three inches of water. Or was it seven? Or two or ten or five or-
          The fountain promised nine. Nine inches. Nine seconds (or two or ten or five) to open a box and open a Pandora's box and ask a question that how could he possibly ask now?
          "You led me here," was all she said.
          You led me here, the fountain hissed.
          I know.

          ("I need a favor," he had asked.)

          "What did you tell them?" he asked when they passed in the hall.
          "What I know, what I told them last night. Why?"
          He smiled, a kind of convulsive twitch of a smile. "Nothing. No reason. Wish me luck." He leaned forward a little and she hugged him briefly and let go, a kind of convulsive twitch of a release. "I'll see you later tonight. Dinner. How's that?"
          "Yeah… yeah," she nodded.
          "You alright?"
          "Mister Sullivan?"
          He ignored the summons and searched her eyes. But she kept them averted, closed to him behind the flicker of a shadow passing across her pale face. "You okay?"
          "Mister Sullivan."
          Her eyes met his. "Go," was all she said.

          "No, I didn't know the man."
          "What were you doing at that spot?"
          "I took my girlfriend there."
          "Why?"
          "Well, I was… going to propose."
          "I see. And you had the ring and everything, did you?"
          "Yes."
          "I see." The detective leaned back in his chair. "You don't have it with you, by chance?"
          "No-why?"
          "Just curious," he shrugged.
          There was a stretch of pause between them. The young man stared down at the grains on the table surging from one end to the other in a kind of straight-lined wave.
          "So you're sure you didn't know him?"
          "Yes, I'm sure I didn't know him." I'm sure I never knew what Jack Reynolds was ever thinking a day in his life. Didn't know him at all.
          But that hadn't ever mattered.

          (I had known it was going to happen for a long time. And when it did, I-he just felt numb, felt like it hadn't really happened, and he couldn't pretend that it did. Because none of this happened, right?
          I'm… having a harder time separating myself from the narrative, I-he-we said.)

          They stared at each other from across the table and the clink of silverware that wasn't silver, and it was only a two-person table, but it felt like a mile between them, and the single-flower vase was a watchtower, a prison tower, and he was too afraid to transcend the gap with words he wasn't sure he meant.
          Where are we going? her eyes asked. You led me here.
          The box was still in his pocket.
          "What did you tell them?"
          Such a sudden question. A curious question. A nervous question and answer. "What?"
          Her closed-off eyes creased, and she stared down at her plate and stabbed a slice of meat with her fork. "What did they ask you? What did you tell them?"
          "Probably the same as you. Only the truth."
          "Did they ask you if you knew him?"
          "Yes."
          "What did you tell them?"
           "…I said I didn't know him."
          "I see," she said with her mouth and tongue and vocal chords. But every other part of her asked again: Where are we going?

          (But that was the end of the questions. The police found the "who," and didn't really care to find out the "why" and let it be at that. The couple eventually got married, and Mr. Sullivan found a job teaching literature and writing to kids who didn't care and a few who did and they were happy.
          But that is the story I don't want to separate myself from and can't bring myself to admit is not the truth of it. I'm having a hard time accepting…)

          ("Jack, I need a ring," I had said. "Jack," I begged, "You've seen my apartment. Would I still live there if I had money?"
          "And you think you're going to fit a wife in that broom closet, huh?" he asked, maybe joking, maybe serious.
          "But, see, she's rich," I said. "Her family, her job, she's got the best; she deserves the best. I found a house for cheap. Foreclosure. We can make it work. I just need a ring, Jack. A special one. The best."
          He snorted at me. "Just got back in the country, Sully. This is how you greet me after two years down south? Haven't even met the girl. You are going to let me meet her soon, right?"
          "…Jack," I said, "I've been a good friend, haven't I? Not like those guys you work with. Besides, this is the first time I've ever asked you for a favor like this, and how long has it been since I've known you? That doesn't count for something?"
          He looked at me, flicked his eyes away, then rolled them in a movement that involved all his shoulders. "Alright. I'll get you a ring. The best."
          And he did. He gave it to me by the swan fountain-same place he always does business, nice and quiet, out of the way, peaceful and secluded.
          Marked off by police tape.)

          She left me. Didn't leave me a note. Didn't need to.
          "Can I help you?" I asked, wishing I couldn't, but knowing I would.
          "Mister Sullivan, could you come with me, please?"
          I looked back at my tiny apartment, at the mirror that ate my reflection and the little table below it. My mother gave me that table and the various knickknacks spread on top that I left out for her sake, and in the center was a photo of me and Jack smiling some summer holiday a few years ago in front of a fountain and a swan…
          I said nothing when he ushered me out of the house.
          Of course I didn't do it. I don't think I did.
          But once they started asking, they would start knowing, and I wouldn't be able to hide the ring still in my pocket or where it came from or how much I knew about the people who moved it from A to B. Just the one misguided person, really, and his friends I never and he never should have trusted. And the small, little favors he maybe asked me to do for him now and then to keep him out of trouble.
          I never did anything wrong. I don't think I did. But she deserved the best and she knew it. You led me here.

          (Where are we going?
          I never know, never know where we're going.
          I'm finding it harder to stay ignorant, don't want to separate myself from the narrative.)

          Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan led a happy life together and Jack always brought the kids something edible or shiny or noisy when he came back from his travels. That's how the story should have, no, did end.

Description
          He heard her sigh; she couldn't help it, staring as she was in the windows, at the empty spaces around her fingers, her wrists, her neck. He didn't even think she noticed what she did, but of course he knew. He was supposed to make those spaces not so empty, but the problem was in his pocket, too.
          They walked by the shops like they always did, her staring in the windows, him at her and down at his feet. Then eventually she noticed his feet dragging a little, and maybe a sigh escaped him, and then she smiled and held his hand. Squeezed a little.
          He walked her home, to her big family home, then he slowly meandered back to his little apartment that he was always embarrassed to show her.
          But despite the doubts that lingered behind the cracked paint and the scratched-up, marked-up walls and the door handle that didn't seem quite attached… they were happy.
          Then the phone rang.
          "Guess who?"
          "Welcome back."

          "Where are we going?"
          "You'll see, you'll see."
          It took place on top of a hill in the midnight scene, the kind of calm when the wind stirs and begins to inhale, bare branches trembling in anticipation.
          I never know, never know where we're going.
          There was a soft hint of murmurs in the distance.
          "What's that?" she asked.
          "There's a festival down by the lake."
          "For what?"
          "Does it matter?"
          What matters?
          "Where are we going?"
          She asked him again. She asked him that question.
          He pressed his finger against her lips. "Nowhere and somewhere important," he smiled and led her further into the park.

          (Yes, it was kind of like a dream.)

          He still had his hand in his coat pocket, fingering the box. No, no… no. No…
          The swan was still gurgling, spraying cool, black water back into the fountain. One of the lamps was out, but the diminished light meant nothing to the world, it seemed.
          "You led me here," she said.
          I know, he wanted to reply. But he hadn't known. He knew that she was beautiful, that they were both young, that this would be the perfect place. A nice, quiet place. A secluded, peaceful place.
          Maybe the man with his face in the fountain was finally peaceful, too.
          He heard it said the Fairy Tale King of Bavaria lived in a daydream and died in three inches of water. Or was it seven? Or two or ten or five or-
          The fountain promised nine. Nine inches. Nine seconds (or two or ten or five) to open a box and open a Pandora's box and ask a question that how could he possibly ask now?
          "You led me here," was all she said.
          You led me here, the fountain hissed.
          I know.

          ("I need a favor," he had asked.)

          "What did you tell them?" he asked when they passed in the hall.
          "What I know, what I told them last night. Why?"
          He smiled, a kind of convulsive twitch of a smile. "Nothing. No reason. Wish me luck." He leaned forward a little and she hugged him briefly and let go, a kind of convulsive twitch of a release. "I'll see you later tonight. Dinner. How's that?"
          "Yeah… yeah," she nodded.
          "You alright?"
          "Mister Sullivan?"
          He ignored the summons and searched her eyes. But she kept them averted, closed to him behind the flicker of a shadow passing across her pale face. "You okay?"
          "Mister Sullivan."
          Her eyes met his. "Go," was all she said.

          "No, I didn't know the man."
          "What were you doing at that spot?"
          "I took my girlfriend there."
          "Why?"
          "Well, I was… going to propose."
          "I see. And you had the ring and everything, did you?"
          "Yes."
          "I see." The detective leaned back in his chair. "You don't have it with you, by chance?"
          "No-why?"
          "Just curious," he shrugged.
          There was a stretch of pause between them. The young man stared down at the grains on the table surging from one end to the other in a kind of straight-lined wave.
          "So you're sure you didn't know him?"
          "Yes, I'm sure I didn't know him." I'm sure I never knew what Jack Reynolds was ever thinking a day in his life. Didn't know him at all.
          But that hadn't ever mattered.

          (I had known it was going to happen for a long time. And when it did, I-he just felt numb, felt like it hadn't really happened, and he couldn't pretend that it did. Because none of this happened, right?
          I'm… having a harder time separating myself from the narrative, I-he-we said.)

          They stared at each other from across the table and the clink of silverware that wasn't silver, and it was only a two-person table, but it felt like a mile between them, and the single-flower vase was a watchtower, a prison tower, and he was too afraid to transcend the gap with words he wasn't sure he meant.
          Where are we going? her eyes asked. You led me here.
          The box was still in his pocket.
          "What did you tell them?"
          Such a sudden question. A curious question. A nervous question and answer. "What?"
          Her closed-off eyes creased, and she stared down at her plate and stabbed a slice of meat with her fork. "What did they ask you? What did you tell them?"
          "Probably the same as you. Only the truth."
          "Did they ask you if you knew him?"
          "Yes."
          "What did you tell them?"
           "…I said I didn't know him."
          "I see," she said with her mouth and tongue and vocal chords. But every other part of her asked again: Where are we going?

          (But that was the end of the questions. The police found the "who," and didn't really care to find out the "why" and let it be at that. The couple eventually got married, and Mr. Sullivan found a job teaching literature and writing to kids who didn't care and a few who did and they were happy.
          But that is the story I don't want to separate myself from and can't bring myself to admit is not the truth of it. I'm having a hard time accepting…)

          ("Jack, I need a ring," I had said. "Jack," I begged, "You've seen my apartment. Would I still live there if I had money?"
          "And you think you're going to fit a wife in that broom closet, huh?" he asked, maybe joking, maybe serious.
          "But, see, she's rich," I said. "Her family, her job, she's got the best; she deserves the best. I found a house for cheap. Foreclosure. We can make it work. I just need a ring, Jack. A special one. The best."
          He snorted at me. "Just got back in the country, Sully. This is how you greet me after two years down south? Haven't even met the girl. You are going to let me meet her soon, right?"
          "…Jack," I said, "I've been a good friend, haven't I? Not like those guys you work with. Besides, this is the first time I've ever asked you for a favor like this, and how long has it been since I've known you? That doesn't count for something?"
          He looked at me, flicked his eyes away, then rolled them in a movement that involved all his shoulders. "Alright. I'll get you a ring. The best."
          And he did. He gave it to me by the swan fountain-same place he always does business, nice and quiet, out of the way, peaceful and secluded.
          Marked off by police tape.)

          She left me. Didn't leave me a note. Didn't need to.
          "Can I help you?" I asked, wishing I couldn't, but knowing I would.
          "Mister Sullivan, could you come with me, please?"
          I looked back at my tiny apartment, at the mirror that ate my reflection and the little table below it. My mother gave me that table and the various knickknacks spread on top that I left out for her sake, and in the center was a photo of me and Jack smiling some summer holiday a few years ago in front of a fountain and a swan…
          I said nothing when he ushered me out of the house.
          Of course I didn't do it. I don't think I did.
          But once they started asking, they would start knowing, and I wouldn't be able to hide the ring still in my pocket or where it came from or how much I knew about the people who moved it from A to B. Just the one misguided person, really, and his friends I never and he never should have trusted. And the small, little favors he maybe asked me to do for him now and then to keep him out of trouble.
          I never did anything wrong. I don't think I did. But she deserved the best and she knew it. You led me here.

          (Where are we going?
          I never know, never know where we're going.
          I'm finding it harder to stay ignorant, don't want to separate myself from the narrative.)

          Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan led a happy life together and Jack always brought the kids something edible or shiny or noisy when he came back from his travels. That's how the story should have, no, did end.