“I do not love you.”

Those were the last words I said to her. On New Year’s Eve. 1982.

It must be her, I thought.

Thirty years had passed since I last saw her. In a basement in London. At a session of Liars Anonymous.

I walked closer. Feeling warm coffee slosh about in the paper cup I held. I spied the self-same style of spectacles she favoured. That bob cut hair. That smile. It must be her.

“Sylvia?”

She looked up. Confusion flickered in her eyes before recognition set in. She allowed the hint of a smile before hiding it.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“Yes. Yes, I think you do.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

I sat myself beside her. I could not help smiling. The sequence felt familiar despite the years. Lie, assertion, lie. Ping pong, but with words. I reached for her hand. This old woman almost sixty. She did not retract under my touch.

We sat in silence. Old bodies on an old wooden bench. In autumn light, almost winter.

Finally, she said.

“I do not love you too.”