"Here," I say.
"They thought it was progress, but all it did was change the price of power."
He nods once.
His breath is warm on my neck.
He reads the schedule, lips moving in silence, and when he looks at me again, the distance between our faces has halved.
"History is written by the ones who win," he says, the cliché rendered strange by the context.
"But the future belongs to those who remember the small errors."
I laugh, and it comes out as a rasp.
"Is that why you keep me here?"
He does not answer.
Instead, he reaches past my ear and picks up a slip of paper from the side table.
It is a grocery receipt, left over from the last housekeeper to take inventory.
He turns it in his fingers, then tucks it into the book as a marker.
"I'm not keeping you," he says.
"You could leave anytime if you wanted to."
This is a lie, but it is delivered with such precision that I almost want to believe it.
I tilt my chin up, so our eyes are level.
"And go where? The city is carved up like a carcass. Even the air has been bought and sold."
He stands, and the sudden shift in elevation leaves me dizzy.
He sets the book on the table, the receipt protrudinglike a tongue, and circles behind the chair.
His hand finds my shoulder, rests there.
I do not flinch.
"You're not afraid," he says, more curious than impressed.
I turn my head, so his hand is at my throat, his thumb pressing gently against my pulse point.
"What's the point?"
His other hand finds the knot of the dressing gown and pulls it loose with a flick.
The fabric pools around my waist.
My body is cold, but I make no move to cover myself.
He traces a line from my jaw to my collarbone, slowly, as if testing the integrity of each bone.
He stops at the spot where a bruise has darkened to a deep, living violet.
