“I’m going to go to China,” I say, with firmness. “I found cheap tickets already, and I’ve had my visa ready for a while.”

“When are you going?”

“In a couple weeks,” I say.

“That’s really soon. You’re coming back, right?”

He looks confused and hurt. The question surprises me. I hadn’t thought that far. But then, since he’s asked, since he’s suggested it, it occurs to me that there are other possibilities in leaving.

“Well, I have a ticket back, but I don’t know about after.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says.

“We can talk about it later,” I say.

We sit for an eternity of silence. I think about all of his flaws. The silence.

Now he’s opening his mouth to end it. “I’m going to miss you.”

For a moment, I feel it, too. Missing him, missing us. But then something inside me shuts off.

“Have you read the articles about race I sent you?”

He looks away guiltily. “I started, but then I got busy. They’re pretty dense. I’m going to finish, though, I swear.”