When he remembers he has a key, she's already half-way through her tea, and she feels how much her eyes sting from the rubbing and the tears. He's standing in the doorway, his face broken in half like the last cookie in the jar, and he knows she's been a widow for ten years now and it's only now, finally, hitting home that she's alone and faceless and nothing.
God, I want to make out with that paragraph. The line about his face was just
ouch
, which I actually said aloud. Ouch. His face doesn't hide anything well.
I wish I watched Oprah or at least knew who Nate Berkus was, but I've got some boxes myself. Parts of this fic were like an open wound and sometimes you read my mind, fic-wise. Happy Birthday, indeed.
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Date: 2007-05-08 01:55 am (UTC)God, I want to make out with that paragraph. The line about his face was just
I wish I watched Oprah or at least knew who Nate Berkus was, but I've got some boxes myself. Parts of this fic were like an open wound and sometimes you read my mind, fic-wise. Happy Birthday, indeed.