She couldn't stop her mind from racing. The bourbon didn't help. Neither did the walking, the pacing, the twitching of her foot when she sat still. It was hard to begin, to fill the blank page, to glue and paint and rub. It was easy to wish she had never started. Until...a bird appeared. She gave it eyes and wings. It gave her hope.
He talks too little and writes too much. I hate eating with him. We're strangers sitting across from each other, night after night. I decide to read an obit out loud. "Herbert Walker, 95, passed into the arms of the Lord on Tuesday. He is survived by his pitbull, One Eye, now available at the dog rescue. The dog is friendly, housebroken, and a fine companion." I look at my husband. "Let's get him," he says.