I can tell he’s trying really hard to control his expression. Even his body language feels carefully orchestrated. As though he’s aware that I’m dissecting his every move.
“Are you still going to stick with the story that you and Isaak were strangers that night?”
Ah. So there it is. He still thinks I’m lying, and considering the current topic we’re discussing, I can understand why it would be hard to believe my story.
Then again, who can believe a connection like that unless they experience it themselves?
Every time I look back on that night in the restaurant, the details of certain moments stand out like a foghorn in the darkness.
I don’t just remember snippets of our conversation. I remember Isaak’s gestures, his smell. The look in his eyes when he was admiring me.
I can still feel
