Back in bed, toes sticking out, numb, that guy - that stupid guy - he whined, whispered, even touched himself but lost his nerve when he tried pushing the bleak image of the woman in the hall - the ugliness of that incident - into something less than, other than… what? Awful. Weak. No, wretched. That was it, wretched.
“Why me,” is what that guy said, barely.
Not at all why you imagined he’d said it. No, because in that cold night that guy convinced himself that he had to help that wretched woman, that beautiful wretched woman. He lay there, limp, sweating bile, dreaming up for the very fist time something like nerve to believe that she (that knee, that sad, sexy eye, those tears) needed him, his help, that she – lost shadows, given up, hopelessly cast aside – like he, stood staring at that front door waiting for him to save them both.
“Why would she believe in me?”
End of part 3