Flames of desire.
“No. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want your stories. I don’t want your attention. You left, Mona. You walked away. And now you have no place here. I suggest you leave before I make that decision for you.”
Her eyes flash, the green catching the light from the blinds, and I can see the fire, the sharp edges of her anger, the way her mind is racing to find leverage, to find the weapon she believes she still holds. But I do not flinch. I do not hesitate. I do not give her anything to hold onto.
“You don’t understand,” she says, stepping forward again, and I can feel the brush of her sleeve against my arm, the faint perfume again trying to invade my senses. “I still… I still …”
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