The dark descends with all its weight from the evening sky. The moon doesn't shine tonight. On streets and cemeteries, grey crows think about rain, which doesn't come. Only the black vapourous clouds hang in there, waiting for something to happen.

Nisha asks, "Where's the moon?"

I say, "Not there, like most things."

Time passes. We don't hold hands, but we walk beside each other. Suddenly, without context, I ask, "Are we going somewhere?"

She says, "I have been thinking..."

Silence drops between us. There's no breeze, no blaring of car horns, no dogs bark, no trees sigh in the dark. From beneath the blanket of clouds, a pale moon comes out. Her green eyes hold its weak light. They don't sparkle, there's no magic in them.

We come out of the cemetery, and walk towards Park Street. Our shoes beat up old dust.

Suddenly, without context, rain begins to fall. A few drops at first, then a downpour.

"Bye," she says.

I turn, and walk away, leaving behind forever our history of moon and skulls.