I return briefly to Gwynne, long enough to kiss his brow and whisper to him what I should have understood lifetimes ago, what I should have told him every night and every morning. “I am yours.”
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I ask, “Was it worth it?”
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And on the other side of the scale, there is a pair of silk slippers.
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I wonder what color they were when he was truly young and how long ago that might have been.
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I am sitting with my back against the pool, and Gwynne’s body is cooling in my arms.
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He is dead, and I belong to no one.
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Then he smiles. Then he leans his weight into the knife and twists his neck sharply, drawing the blade across his own throat.
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His gaze is steady, full of a love so naked and sincere that I wonder for a moment if the two of us are alone, if everything else is just another bad dream.
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I know him, and in knowing him I love him, and in loving him I cannot do as he wishes.