It is a feint at the patron’s pocket to see if her hand will flinch: a test not of her generosity but of her guilt before my boundless love. Can she trust me to toe the line, to respect what we are and what we are not, or will I ask for too much? Will my greed or, worse, my need—face-slapping, hair-tearing desperation—bubble to the surface and expose the charade we have been acting out since that night I failed to rescue her and was rescued myself instead?
