“You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice was sharp with accusation.
Despite the steam and pounding hot water, he could see the running tears and snot. He tried to think of what he’d missed. They’d had fine meals, tickets to the ballet, and a some good fun.
“You really don’t,” she was shaking her head. She looked up into the pounding spray for a moment as if seeking god. One of those perfect hands reached out and she stroked her thumb down his cheek. He turned his head to place a kiss in her palm, but she pulled back before he could.
She sat up straighter.
“You really don’t. Oh, Russell.” Her soft accent gone, replaced by the flat slap of New York. She wiped at her eyes, her gray eyes filled with infinite sadness.
“I’m sorry for me, but I’m more sorry for you.” She rose from the floor, ri
