Baking

She had been listening a second ago to the music from a day after the snow fell for the first time. It was exactly twelve months to the minute since Henry said goodbye. She would know; she’d counted every sixty second interval of separation. A look out the window brought a studied question to her weary brow, “Would he be back?”
Suddenly, the moist sensation of a rolling tear down her weary cheek; a silent revelation of all she still felt and would never say to a man she never thought of loving as much as she did. She hated tears. Their salty taste, their fluid languor, their obstinacy, she hated it all.
In the background, the egg timer brought her back to earth. She wiped her face, brushed cat hair off her pant leg. She closed the blinds. Then, in the dark, between muffins and madness, she wept.

Baking

SRComfort

Joined January 2008

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