forthedog: (Default)
Mike Pinocchio ([personal profile] forthedog) wrote2013-07-14 12:02 am
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He gets the girls into bed with a minimum of fuss. he's not sure if they can sense that something's going on, but they seem unusually cooperative, and the good-night kisses they give him are especially sweet. Though maybe it's just his imagination.

Andrea is in the hospital. Today he went to work and had to tell them that she wouldn't be coming in for a while, though he didn't tell them specifically why. He shouldn't be feeling this good.

There's nothing on TV so he stretches out on the couch with a book and the glasses he's finally - once again - caved in and gotten. He's only half reading, close to dozing, letting his eye scan the page while picking up every other word, but this book keeps grabbing him - bought for the girls until he realized that it was much too adult for them - and one passage catches and tugs.

I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.

This is something, he thinks with an odd flush of satisfaction. The sheets still smell like her. This is definitely something.

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