She is the sun to him. He feels warmth radiating from her face. The shy blinks of her eyes are like rays of light, a glow emanating somehow from inside him and out. She heats him in the coldness of winter, a furnace in his chest, fuelled by her presence. And yet she herself is cold.
She must have been burned before, or burned too bright. Love doesn’t interest her now. She’d rather be alone. So when he asks her to join him for a drink or to watch a film, she makes up whatever excuse, chooses anything else instead. She’s always busy, supposedly. She gives sparingly, like a miser. He tries to take her to dinner, but her time is too precious to her — she has no time for him, can’t give him attention. She gives him lunch when he wants a weekend.