On Thin Ice
It hung there in the cold air between us, small and true and impossible to take back.
Nora went quiet. Really quiet, the kind of quiet where you can hear the Zamboni humming somewhere inside the building, doing its slow laps, getting the ice ready for tomorrow.
“Not for you,” she repeated.
“Or for anyone. I meant it generally.” Which was a lie, and we both knew it, and neither of us said so.
“Right,” she said. “Generally.”
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