Morning. Someone prodding him. Her. She would probably have waited, but the sight of him sleeping on the floor like a dog got to her. She had recovered her composure, although the canker of so short a night had eaten away her face. It looked emaciated, dark, already a thing of the past.
Her voice faltered, but had come back to her, was here in the light of day, a day which spoke in her now, and spoke to him. There was no sense in the fact that she was brimming with emotion. Everything was brittle and tender. She tried to appear hard and alien, but might at any moment burst into tears, manifesting only sorrow.
He could not forget she had chosen to rid herself of his child, but did he want a child himself, was he even ready to imagine her having his baby? He had been oafishly insensitive t
