[x] 如果的事

She said, "We'll never be more than this." And he never knew what she meant. He forgot the words, with time, but they are brought back in a haze of alcohol three years later in a smoky, dimly-lit bar. He remembers her face, her hands, the silhouette of her back when she walks away. He remembers the empty smile she gives him the next time they meet, perfectly civil and emotionally unavailable. He's not sure even now what he should have said, or if it would have made a difference. The world continues spinning - figuratively and literally - and he realizes he's tipped off the stool in his stupor. One foot meets the ground abruptly, jerking him to a stop, and a hand catches his upper arm to steady him. He looks blankly at the figure holding him up, his anchor to this dusky reality, and his mind is working slowly but he registers the face of his friend, looking at him with concern. He wishes it were her, instead; wishes he had known the words.