That’s how it seems, anyway – like something is done. He didn’t really want to do anything after the kiss, and I don’t blame him. I didn’t want to do anything either. I couldn’t even speak. The weight of his strange expression and his tensing body just sank me down, until it was time to leave. Of course, he was a gentleman about it. He called me a taxi, and bid me a formal goodbye. It was all oddly respectful … but oh, it was the painful sort of respect. It was the excruciatingly polite kind that only served to remind me of the bad thing I did. I kissed him on the mouth like the cruel witch in a fairytale, and he duly fell down dead. I just don’t know why. I don’t know why, damn it – but God, how I want to. I’d do anything to understand. I keep thinking about his stony face, and what it would take to get a chisel underneath the top layer. What question would work on him? What words could possibly unlock his hidden secrets? I can hardly imagine. And that’s probably my flaw.
