Page 114 of Shatter

The side door creaks.

I don't turn around.

In the curve of the chrome tank on the bench, a figure stands in the doorway, stretched and bent by the metal.

Barefoot, in her jeans and one of my old T-shirts, the hem hanging to her thighs.

Copper hair loose around her face.

She doesn't come in.

She stands there in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself, and I watch her reflection shake.

"I'm sorry." Her voice breaks on it. "Espen, I'm so sorry."

I pick up the next jet and turn it over in my fingers.

"You're not him." She takes one step inside. "I knew it when I said it. I knew it, and I said it anyway, because I wanted you to hurt."

I set the jet down.

I wipe my hands on the rag, slow, and turn around.

She's standing in the middle of the shop floor with the work light catching the tears on her face, and her eyes go straight to my hands.

I don't go to her.

I lean back against the bench and wait.

Whatever she came here for, she walks the rest of the way herself.

She does.

She crosses the concrete in a few quick steps, her bare feet slapping, and she takes my hands in both of hers.

Under the light, she turns them over.

Her thumbs move along my split knuckles, careful, through the blood and the black grease, and her mouth trembles.

"Look what you did." It comes out a whisper.

"It's nothing." My voice is rough from not using it.

She lifts my right hand to her mouth and kisses the worst knuckle, blood and grease and all.

Something in my throat cracks.

Then she lets go of my hands, reaches up, and pulls my face down to hers.

She kisses me like she's drowning.

Hard and desperate, her fingers digging into my jaw, the salt of her tears on my tongue.

I groan into her mouth and let her have it.

She shoves me.

My back hits the bench, and the length of it rattles.