He stands with his back to the room, gazing out a window glazed with rain, a snifter of fine Scotch gripped tightly in his left hand. I notice the whiteness of his knuckles, the hair curling over them in still-black rococo swirls. He is still angry.
He doesn’t know I’m watching him. That fact makes something unfurl warmly in my abdomen–a rush of heat, like a heating pad that warms you from the inside, said inside being dark with d e s i r e.
I clear my throat. “You were magnificent.”
He doesn’t turn around.
“Yes,” I say, stepping forward tentatively from the brightness of the hall to the dim living room, lit only by rain-streaked moonlight. I want to touch his shoulder. Do I dare? I do.
“Yes,” I repeat. “You were.”
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