I turned it to the first page, when I was hoping I could make our story a piece of fiction for publication.  It was about a scene with a couple facing one another at a late night pizza joint in a rather large city.  She was nervous; he was persistent.  She fumbled with words and repetatively stabbed her lime in her water. I remember that night in Greensboro.  You were trying to prove to me that not everyone has motives.  But I suppose by now I’ve proved you wrong.  You got upset with me that night, though.  You tried to explain to me that you don’t have motives but your denial only helped my walls to build higher. You pierced the silence between us: “Then what’s yours?…  If everyone has a motive, what’s yours?” “I have many.  Everyone does.  It all depends on the time and place.  Different situations call for different…” “What about now?” “Don’t do this,” I said. “Tell me.” Do you remember what I said to you?  No? “To warn you about me.  My motive is to keep you from falling for me.” You scoffed at me.  You didn’t believe me. “I’m not afraid of you.” “You should be.” You looked at me weird.  You probably rolled your eyes. “Why?” I began to tear up that night in the pizza place alongside college students and lonely alcoholics alike. “Because I’m not who you think I am.  I never will be…” I couldn’t ask for a better response given the time and place from you: “And you think I am?  I don’t think I am who you believe me to be.” “But what do I have to lose?” You thought deeply for the right words to say: “Your desire, your passion…”  You paused.  “Us.” There was nothing I could say to deny that.  But I don’t think either of us could have predicted the ending so many months later.  This is us now, writing love letters through anonymous websites. But there isn’t anything that could resurrect us anymore. We’ve burnt those bridges to nothingness and we don’t trust each other enough to rebuild them.