Was I supposed to know whether this was good or dangerous?
Did he think it was funny that I tried to run from his eyes?
Funny that I clung to a blanket like it could make me invisible?
Funny that I was standing here in thin lingerie, clutching a dress like protection he’d already stripped of meaning?
I tried to breathe, but the air scraped down my throat like broken glass. I could still feel the cold on my skin where the blanket had fallen. I could still feel the heat of his stare in place his hands hadn’t even touched. I could still feel the memory of his fingers on mine from moments ago-steady, decisive, unshakable.
I stared at the door. At the faintest shadow I thought might be his. I wanted to speak-ask why he was laughing, ask what he found so amusing, ask what he expected now.
