“Forgiveness…? Why would I want forgiveness? I’ve never once been wrong. There is nothing to forgive.”
“How can you even say that …? You left the place in ruins. I can still feel the fire; I still have ashes under my fingernails and stuck to my lips. My hair reeks of smoke.”
At those words, your lips curl – that lopsided grin that once left me breathless –
(it does not still leave me breathless)
– and I am gaping, wondering how it is that you provided the spark, yet I am the one covered in soot and grime, smelling of your smoke. You look just as pristine as ever. Clean and untouched, seemingly untouchable. Your unbalanced smile could have been plucked from a Rembrandt painting.
“I think you have mistaken forgiveness for gratitude,” you say smoothly, that crooked grin widening –
(I am not breathless)
– as you move towards me.
(I am not)
“You’re welcome, love.”
“Now let me taste those ashes.”