They are hand in hand, walking down Lombard Street, San Francisco. He says, “Annapurna? K2? Are you kidding?”

She says, “They’re the toughest, right? You clearly like a challenge.”

“K2, you’d need a team. Ice shelves, 50 below. And Annapurna, do you know how many people died trying. I’m not suicidal.” She does not get what he’s already been through.

“You’re a natural climber. And skilled. You’ve climbed Everest, Denali. You’re in excellent shape.”

Those were years ago. He regrets the brag. What a guy will say to win a smart beauty.

“You’re very strong,” she says.

“Not strong enough. And I am not being modest.”

“Honestly?” She pauses. “Are you afraid?”

He lets go of her hand, glances over at her long blond hair shading part of her finely sculpted cheek. Today, her chin seems hard as polished granite. “Not interested.”

“Are you finished climbing then?”

“Maybe,” he says, although he isn’t. Why this goading? Totally done if he doesn’t defy death, choose the most hazardous peak? He is tempted to say: you want me to do it so you can say I did.

“You can accomplish whatever you tell yourself you can.”

“I tell myself I do not care to make the attempt.”

She shakes her head as if he’s merely being stubborn, then she smiles up at him. “You’ll think about it though.”

“How would you feel if I tried and discovered, right at the start, it’s impossible.”

She shrugs. “I can’t imagine that. So you are thinking about it. Good.” She takes his hand and squeezes it.

He will let her keep the ring, compensation for his failings.