But the fear remains—the fear that in the cold light of day we will be forced to come to terms with what was, quite simply, an awful mistake; the fear that we will have no choice but to bury this night as if it never took place, a shameful secret to be filed away for the rest of our lives until, brittle with age, it crumbles to dust—a faint, distant memory, like the powder of a moth’s wings on a windowpane, the specter of something that perhaps never occurred, existing solely in our imagination.
