His body remained rigid.
“Where are you?”
“Bedroom.”
“What can you feel?”
“Your hand.”
“What else?”
“Marlowe against my legs.”
“Anything from the wreck?”
“Not right now.”
“Good.”
His breathing slowed by a fraction.
“The song was playing before,” he murmured.
“Before what?”
“Before us.”
I waited.
“At the tavern. We were drunk.”
The memory had not finished opening.
“You asked me to dance,” he said.
“I denied that for years.”
“You did ask.”
“I did.”
“No one else was dancing.”
“No.”
“I thought you were trying to embarrass me.”
“I was trying to touch you where other people could see.”
His lips shifted faintly.
“You stepped on my shoe.”
“You complained for a week.”
“I liked it.”
“The foot injury?”
