Whatever he does, whatever he says, whatever he tries to input. He is too sensitive, too easily hurt, too involved, too emotional. Not distant enough, not chic enough, not mysterious enough. He’s not enough. The die is cast. He’s lived long enough to know that he has to move on, draw a line, get out. He’ll tell her in the morning, when the alarm call wakes them. Monday the twentieth of May strikes him as a good date, it’s got the right ring to it. But tonight, like every night for more than a year, he tells himself that he won’t be able to do it.