She didn't say what she was thinking: And you only heard me in the silences between my words.
Their courtship was not a montage. It was the removal of armor, piece by rusted piece. Claire had left a husband in Berlin, a man who had loved her like a collector loves a rare stamp—carefully, behind glass. Daniel had never been left; he had simply evaporated from his last relationship, leaving no trace, which he considered polite.
By spring, they had moved in together. The apartment had a claw-foot tub and a radiator that wept steam. They were both thirty-three. Old enough to have scars, young enough to pretend they were just tattoos.
She felt a cold finger trace her spine. "You recorded me without asking."