“This is black,” he said. “Fear, falling, release. Excitement, risk, danger.” I sat there, hugging him and trying to figure out if I liked it or not. It scared me just like he did when he broke into the house last week. I hated that, but . . . I didn’t really hate it anymore. Probably because I wasn’t as scared of him anymore. It was fear in a controlled environment. The motorcycle wasn’t. Or maybe I just needed to try it again.
