still standing next to him, he saw the fine gold hair on the nape of Teresa’s neck as she leaned over to work on his hand. The image started the whole encounter unfolding in the minutest detail.
He whispered to himself. “Why didn’t she arrest me?” She cried. I shouldn’t have made her cry.” He stared at the bandage, turning his hand to see it from every angle. He didn’t notice the pain.
“Nice. Neat work. She thinks I’m insane, why shouldn’t she.”
Vincent shuddered with the strangeness of it all, to be so close.
“Better that she hate me, better she think I’m a pervert.”
His thoughts moved in so many layers his head hurt. Beneath the worry, a powerful need to see her again, but the need sank in a whirlpool of dread.
The predominant feeling was confusion, ruthlessly suppressed desire; not the undiluted physical attraction of a man for a sexually attractive woman. That he could deal with. Hidden beneath the swirl of conflicting pictures, memories, was affinity, the desire to be close to another human being. But this thing, this affinity was the most dangerous desire of all.
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