His palm isn’t rough, but it is tough, and his handshake is firm. I must be off my rocker because I find myself wishing he’d try to squeeze the life out of my hand, the way some men do. It would be a betrayal of emotion, or, I don’t know, fucking memory. Right now, he’s making me wonder if last night even happened, and it’s starting to piss me off. That coal beneath my breastbone, the one he put there, is burning through things best left unburnt. Apparently, it’s not worry or resentment: it’s anger, and it’s rising up my throat at a rapid clip. I clench my jaw.
