I am flushed.
While it is not my usual desire, it is something like it.
“It is our first—time.”
It is incredibly erotic to read it from his perspective.
“I hope you are not affronted,” he says, eyeing me nervously.
“No, of course not.”
“I wanted—well, it was what came to me when I tried to write something. I’ll never forget that day, Annabelle. Or any of the others.”
I look at him.
“I haven’t forgotten any of it either.”
“And I wanted you to read how I see you. It felt important to me after?—”
He breaks off, and I am not sure what he means.
“After what?”
He sighs. “I shouldn’t have said?—”
“Please do.”
He gives me another wary look.
“After you told me the story of George Garrison.”
That was not what I expected.
“What do you mean?”
“You asked if I could still love you.”
I flush again but this time from embarrassment.
“I was overset.”
“No, you don’t understand.” He moves towards me and takes my hand. “You don’t have to defend it. But I started writing and I realized that I wanted you to see this—how I see you.”
I can understand why. It is a powerful thing.
I wish more than anything that I could feel the desire that I want to feel.
That I know I should.
Instead, I can only look down.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “May I read the rest?”
“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
And I do, glorying in every word.
Alfred says that he loves me.
