He never should have kissed her.
He had kissed her several times. One was under one of those ridiculous mistletoe monstrosities that had festooned Bloor over the Yuletide. He'd never been one to bow to holiday commercialism, but he couldn't resist the thought of kissing her 'neath the mistletoe.
He'd felt her body heat through her day-glo parka (he'd joked that she could guide small planes down with it, and she had swatted him on the arm for his impudence). The snow melting in her hair had dampened his hand when he'd grasped the wild tendrils. She'd enveloped him in warmth even in the December cold, and even though he had no warmth of his own to give.
That was the second kiss they'd ever had, and the first one she could remember. He would always remember each kiss, keep it tucked in his silent heart for safekeeping, where it would both cut him and salve his pain.
Amid the holiday bustle on the train, no one noticed that one of the passengers was quietly crying crimson tears.