HOLDING ON

The last time he had noticed the mantelpiece, it had been covered in bright and cheerful birthday cards. Now it only held four objects: a candle at either end, their wavering flames providing the sole illumination of this grey room; a photograph and a mechanical calendar. He did not dwell on the photograph: he already knew every detail of it. Taken last year, it was filled with such warmth and happiness - such a contrast to this bleak room. But at least it was still there, that was something. Unless she'd put it there just now, knowing he was coming. No, she wouldn't intentionally give him false signals.

Instead he dwelled on the calendar. 31 August, an appropriate day for the world to end. School hadn't started yet - no false hopes for pupils entering a new year - but exam takers had received their results. But he couldn't think idle thoughts for long. His eyes drifted once more towards the door.

It had been a mistake to come here. He had known that the moment he'd suggested it. But after a brief hesitation, she'd said, "All right" wearily and then he'd known he wouldn't be able to change her mind. Yet it wasn't fair on her. What sort of way was this to spend her last night on earth, having dinner with her ex? Some people were praying, others glued to the TV or radio, others smashing everything in sight. But they were here, together again, horribly uncomfortable. He should have called sooner. The moment he heard the news, he knew he had to make amends, but he'd been too scared to ring until today. Now it was too late to change things.

She appeared then, plates in hands. Her face was pale, her clothes formal, her approach stiff. She had changed, but still wore a glimmer the past: the fear.

She set down his plate, then sat down opposite him. He poured wine into the two glasses. He replaced the bottle on the table as gently as he could, but his hand was shaking. He sipped the wine to calm himself. It did little to moisten his dry mouth. He tried the steak. It tasted like cardboard. She had never been much of a cook, but it wasn't that.

She seemed unlikely to say anything; he had to start the conversation. "What do you make of it all?" he blurted, remembering too late not to ask her open-ended questions. He recalled from their last weeks together her hatred of giving opinions.

"I don't know," she replied. "I still can't quite believe it's happening so quickly, without warning."

He nodded. He wasn't too concerned about the world coming to an end. It was old and polluted and life hadn't held anything for him recently. But her half-hearted words echoed his feelings about something else. It was all so vivid, as if the last few months of boredom and monotony had only lasted a second. For so long, he'd suspected nothing. Then he'd seen the red eyes, followed shortly by the little cuts all over her body - then, before he realised what was going on, her body blue and cold, with a suicide note taped to the mirror. He shuddered at the horrific memory.

"Do you think we've got a chance?" He had given the question, unintentionally, a double meaning.

She considered. "Maybe," she said quietly. "It isn't too late."

There wasn't time for subtlety and he wasn't here to talk about current affairs. Somehow he had to get her back to the past. But how could he start? "The book," he said, suddenly. "What happened to the book? Did you finish it?"

She had always been secretive about her book, embarrassed by it. Yet beyond her humiliation shone a pride in her work. One day, he had hoped, she would permit him to read it. Now it was probably too late.

She stared down at the table. "No. I never finished it. I haven't written in it since . . ." She didn't have to say when. He knew and it made him sad. They might make amends tonight, but there wasn't time for her to finish her masterpiece. It would never be completed.

Time for another subject. "The job, did you get the job?"

She raised her head, but still she did not meet his eyes. "They said yes, but I said no. I've been doing some proof reading and posting envelopes and things. It's all right." Realising that he was going to keep bombarding her with questions, she asked one to escape. "How've you been? Have you been seeing anyone else?"

That was exactly what he wanted to ask her, but he was afraid of the answer. "No," he said, quickly. But that wasn't true. Unbidden, memories crawled through his brain. A night, not long after the break up. Go out, drink himself into oblivion, have a one night stand. That had been the plan and that was what he'd done, except he hadn't a great time by any means. He didn't remember much of it, the woman's name for example. The stench of cigarettes, alcohol and perfume, her older aggressive face, the roughness of the sheets: that was what he recalled.

This was no time for pretences, he had to be honest. "No one special," he added: an overstatement, but he couldn't correct himself anymore. "Have you?"

She spent a few seconds selecting an answer. "No," she decided. A lie? Hardly anyone?

He busied himself with his food. He had one last idea left: happier times. He swallowed, and took a deep breath.

"I - I was at The Drake the other day," he said, though he hadn't been there for months. "It's changed. New staff. They've rearranged the furniture, I think."

As he'd hoped, a distant glaze came into her eyes, remembering. He allowed himself to slip back. That was where they'd gone for their six month anniversary; it had been a perfect night in every way.

"Everything changes," she said, her voice hollow.

You changed, he wanted to say, but it was pointless. She knew that as well as he did. What he wanted to know was why. But how could he approach the subject?

The wall clock clicked, meaning a new hour had begun. How many times had he heard that click, how many times had he wondered if it was the only clock in the world that did that? How many times would he hear it again? Time was running out. He scanned the room, absorbing as much as possible. This would be his eternal resting place. And, providing she didn't walk out, hers. Together alone, for the last time. Forever.

The room had changed. It was sparser, furnished for convenience nothing else. As impersonal as a prison cell, except that photograph. Now he stared at it. That was what he wanted to be thinking about: how it used it be, not how it was now.

She noticed his gaze and turned her head to see what he was looking at. On realising, she returned to her meal.

He stared hard at her until she looked up and her eyes met his. This was it, they didn't have long left. "What happened to us?" he croaked.

No hesitation this time; just a rapid breakdown of formalities. "I don't know," she sobbed, tears exploding from her eyes. "It was so fast . . . I lost my job . . . I grew so bored and depressed . . . I stopped working on my novel - it was autobiographical. There was nothing left for me . . . Everything was so good for you, you were always so happy . . . I was just dragging you down, holding you back as I begged for sympathy . . . I just decided to end it . . ."

She stood up and for a moment, he feared she would run from the room. But she came to his side of the table and he stood, taking her into his arms.

"It's ok," he told her, softly. "Everything's all right."

He held her tightly, not saying a thing. Both cried steadily and silently, their tears mingling. Tears of pity and frustration for all those wasted months of emptiness, tears for each other and themselves.

Their souls entwined, melting into one. But, he couldn't help wondering, what next? A final goodbye? A fresh start?

He never found out.