She lay awake until two in the morning, thinking about three minutes and twenty seconds.
She had come home at eleven, had showered and changed and sat on the edge of her bed with every intention of going to sleep like a sensible person, and sleep had simply not arrived. The flat was quiet and Zara was asleep, and the city was doing its late-night version of itself outside the window, and she lay in the dark and thought about his hand at the small of her back and the warmth of him through his jacket and the one beat after the music stopped when neither of them had moved.
She thought about his voice, saying it was exactly right in that low-calibrated register that had been meant only for her, and she thought about the amber in his eyes when she had looked up at him and found him already lo
