The Collapsing Lie

Claire doesn't pull her wrist back; she just looks at his hand, then at his face, and asks, 'Warren, whose party is it really?' The wig lies on the carpet between them, a blonde accusation. He feels the key in his pocket like a hot coal, and the belt buckle presses cold against his spine under his shirt. She steps closer, close enough that he can smell her perfume, and says, 'I can call your office right now and ask if there's a party.' Her free hand moves to his collar, fingers brushing the fabric where the belt's edge hides.