When, finally, slowly, she lifted her face, he was standing over her, his mouth open, as if still amazed. She thought he might be wrestling with some better remnant of himself, some instinct more humane. But she had no faith in that, she had nothing but the same old heavy irony for that as well.
And she was still smiling faintly when his features set themselves at last, when he thumped his chest with his fist in a token of ferocity and resolution.
‘I have the photographs,’ he said again. And he glared down at her, triumphant.
Maxim Jakubowski
***
