The ridge I'd felt was one of thetrap's hinges. When shedid, I would stop her, one way or another distract her into turning heranger on me, if that was what it took. If I continued topress, she would just say no. She was in the room, though.
A part of me would be more thanglad to pay the last installment on that old bill. She was quite an athlete in college, youknow. Its needly tip poked in over the stove, makingshadows on the counter and the stove-burners as it swayed. Ididn't have much luck, though; part of me was still a writer, I guess,and a writer is a man who has taught his mind to misbehave.
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