But as he was still putting his arms through the cloth, Sarah had seen his back—his back, his skin. She blinked once, then again, as if her eyes had become traitors conspiring with her heart.
"Oh… my God," she sneered, wide-eyed, her voice breaking somewhere between shock and disbelief, as she walked up close to Simma, who was now about to wear his clothes.
"Wait…" she said, stopping Simma.
Simma turned and stared at her. It was weird, a very weird moment between them, but nevertheless it was charged, like a room filled with the smell of rain just before a storm.
She went on, almost instinctively, and took the half-worn cloth off of Simma's shoulders.
Simma was still backing her though, and he knew what was going on automatically. Silence befell them, heavy and velvet-thick, like a curtain drawn over an audience before the first act.
