Angelo
I feel more than a little concerned when I see Rosalia pale and silent the next morning at the breakfast table, picking at her food the way she has been more often than not lately.
“Is there something I can ask the cook to make for you that you would find more palatable for breakfast?” I ask when I see her stab the same small piece of sausage with her fork three times without ever actually putting it in her mouth. “I’m worried about how little you’re eating.”
“I’m trying.” Rosalia pokes at the sausage again. “I’m just tired. I’ll try to eat more at lunch.”
I felt guilty, leaving Rosalia in the middle of the night, but I didn’t think it would help either one of us for her to wake up with me in her bed. It was hard enough to lie there, wanting to pull her into my arms and hold her
