I take a long drink of wine. Then I put the glass down and wrap both hands around the base of it because I need something to hold.
“When I was nineteen,” I start, “I was in my sophomore year at college. I went to a party. Drank too much. I went back to my dorm room with a guy because he seemed nice and I was drunk and stupid.” I swallow. “He wasn’t nice. He wasn’t nice at all.”
The candlelight flickers across Kir’s face. He’s looking at me steadfastly. But I don’t dare meet his eyes.
“I don’t remember all of it. Just bits and pieces. The ceiling had a crack in it. There was a sock by the door I’d been looking for all week. It’s funny that that’s what I remember, but it’s like my brain just left and went somewhere else. Somewhere safer than my own body.”
I realize I’m clutching the wine
