ONE MORE REASON
Glande pov
The taxi moved through the evening traffic, and I sat in the back seat and stared at the city without seeing it.
I was too busy telling myself things.
The kiss had not been a kiss.
I had been telling myself this since the moment I walked out of his office. I told myself in the elevator on the way down. I had told myself to cross the lobby with the cold evening air hitting me through the revolving doors. I had been telling myself with the specific insistence of someone who knows they are losing an argument with themselves and is repeating their position more forcefully in the hope that repetition will compensate for the weakness of the reasoning.
It had been an accident.
A misplaced step. A rug catches a heel. Two people reach for the same scattered papers
