Mitch had gotten attached to Reginald’s notes, which were full of good humor, London life, and the occasional math problem for her to solve. Sometimes she wished he didn’t put so much effort and care into them, but she couldn’t deny that she looked forward to checking her email in the mornings. He didn’t write every day, and she worked hard at avoiding disappointment when there was nothing from him.
She did her best at responding in kind, though she felt acutely her shortcomings in this area. Words were hard enough when describing technical things, but trying to write about how she felt, about her love-hate relationship to his emails, rivaled debugging in required mental gyrations.
She piloted the mower into the shed and cut the engine. The quiet was deafening, the stillness such a shock
