But asking Kir means seeing Kir. And seeing Kir means confronting the mask and the window and his hands and his mouth and the way my brain turns to white noise the second he touches me.
I press the folder tighter against my chest. This is the problem. Everything is knotted together now. The story, the s*x, the danger, the need. I can’t pull on one thread without dragging the rest with it. Kir is my source and my subject and too many other things to name.
Whatever he is or isn’t, I can’t think about him without my professional judgment getting clouded the second he lays a finger on me.
I take the train back to my apartment as thoughts buzz around in my head. I hit the elevator button in my lobby and ride up, thinking of how and when to report this to Doug. Should I solidify everything fi
