She sat on the leather chair and sank into the divot made by long years under her husband’s weight. She rested her head on the wall behind her, where it was shiny from his head. She looked at the window where he’d dreamt for so many hours, lost in his imaginings, and was filled with a kind of dark tingle. She felt enormous, the size of the house, crowned with the moon, wind in her ears.
[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.]
This one would be for Lotto. “This will be fun,” she said aloud to the empty house.
