Then his fingers touched the top button.
He worked slowly.
His knuckles brushed the fabric, never my skin. Each button opened with a small release of pressure. I watched him in the mirror.
His face remained composed, but his attention had changed. It was no longer distant or dismissive.
He had noticed something.
“What?” I asked.
His hands stopped.
“Nothing.”
“That is not true.”
He resumed.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“The room is warm.”
I looked away from the mirror.
His fingers reached the middle of my back.
“Eveina.”
I hated the gentleness in my name.
It threatened the control I had carried since Thursday morning.
“What?”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“About not hurting me?”
“Yes.”
Men probably said such things when they wanted gratitude for basic decency.
I folded my arms across the front of the dress.
“You expect me to trust a promise from a man I met this morning?”
