It didn’t matter how many times I read the first line. Five times, ten, twenty. I still failed to comprehend the words on the page. My mind was far from the book I held in my hands. The book could’ve been written in Italian for how little the words meant to me.
I could’ve kept reading as if I had processed that line and perhaps it would’ve made no difference. Not every single word in a book is essential to understanding the plot. Yet my head fell back onto the arm of the sofa, struggling to continue on.
Earlier, I had Luciano in position to be more vulnerable than he had been in a long time. That’s why he ran. He hadn’t let anyone get so close to the man he is without the drugs and guns and the money. This afternoon wasn’t the end of our marriage, but how could we keep moving forward if
