I went back to my room, locked the door, and leaned back against the cold wood. His voice was still ringing in my ears: "Then let's burn together." The words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion. A promise and a threat rolled into one.
The torn pieces of the photograph were in my pocket, the sharp edges of the paper pricking my fingers through the fabric. I pulled them out and threw them in the fireplace, but I didn't set them on fire. I just watched them lying on the bars, black-and-white fragments of our performance today. A great duet. George was right. In the picture, we looked like... right. It was as if all these years of coldness and mutual reproaches were just a preparation for this moment, for this gesture — his hand on my neck, my submission to this touch.
But it was a
