My head swims with everything we’ve talked about. My palm is smeared with gold. When I look at him, I see the remaining powder has been smudged over his cheekbone by the strike of my hand. I can’t stop staring at it, can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he caught my fingers. That’s the only excuse I have for not noticing that he’s led me back to his rooms, which are, I suppose, also mine since we’re married.
