They would meet up at Hans’ diner, every Friday night; it was their place. He would already be there when she arrived, sitting patiently in their booth at the back of the interior; head down, hands wrapped around a mug. She would open the door, pause to scope out the company that would be joining them tonight, and then she would let the door fall back, the bell above jingling and Tom would look up and smile cheerfully at her.

At first they had an excuse to get together, had a reason, and then that reason was finished and they had stopped seeing each other, stopped meeting up at Hans'. But with their situation, seeing each other was inevitable.

“We’ll never make it,” she would say to him as he kissed her desperately and passionately, tugging at each other’s clothes urgently.

He knew she was right, knew that their secret could never be exposed, but also that the secrecy was slowly and gradually wearing them down. “Not with that attitude, we won’t,” would be his reply every time, what she needed to hear, what kept them together—what kept them apart.