THE THOUGHT OF THE KISS
*Alex's pov first — then Glande's.*
I lay in the dark of my apartment, and I looked at the ceiling, and I catalogued, with the specific compulsive attention of a man who processes things through examination, everything that had happened in my office at six fifty-three in the evening.
She had said my name.
Not Mr. Dallas. Not in the professional register she had been using for two months with the careful consistency of someone who had decided that register was the appropriate one and had not deviated from it. She had said *Alex* — in a voice I had not heard before and had somehow recognized immediately, a voice that belonged to a version of her I had been glimpsing through the managed surface for weeks and had never been given access to remember when I had kisse
