Richard hadn’t moved from the couch in hours.
The TV played something—he couldn’t remember what. The sound was low, the images just color and motion. He wasn’t watching anyway.
He held Madeline’s coffee mug like it was a life preserver. Her pink one, the one with the stupid gold cursive that said Don’t talk to me until I’ve had at least 2 cups of coffee. She used to sip from it while reading on her k****e, perfectly disinterested in whatever he was saying.
He never noticed the way she tuned him out until now. Now he saw it in flashbacks: the way she’d smile politely and blink slowly when he spoke, like she was waiting for a better option to walk into the room. The way she’d touch his shoulder at parties, but only when someone was talking to her about the winery . The way she’d laugh at
