“I think you’re tired, too.” “Of what?” “The lies.” 60 I look down at my shoes. Back up. “How are you so sure that—” “I told you, Ethel. I know how I feel about you. And I know how you feel, too.” “And what would that—” He bends toward me slowly enough that I could conceivably stop him, but I don’t care to conceive of it—before his lips touch mine, or after.
