"He was a writer" I say, unconvincingly. He picks through his lamb chops, the light from the candles makes his skin look like pinkish rose petals. "What did he write about" he asks without making eye contact, I lie again and maybe he knows it.
We walk back through Washington Square Park, he stops me beneath the arch and holds me in his arms until I forget how cold it is. "Nothing is forever" he says, just like that. Fifth Avenue looks like an open wound over his shoulder and I wish I could believe he was wrong.