Damien Wolfe
I didn’t touch her again that night. Not the back, not a hand, not even the place at her waist where a man’s thumb could tell her the world still belonged to him. We left the gala without the usual little pretenses I didn’t offer her my coat, she didn’t ask for it, and the silence between us was not the kind I command this was the kind that sits too close and smells like the fuse on a bomb.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring through the tinted glass like the world outside was someone else’s memory. The kiss we’d shared five minutes earlier hadn’t erased the tremor that ran through her when the lights hit the gold fabric of the dress every time a streetlamp cut across her thighs it showed me how much of her was still raw. I watched the line of her jaw, the way
