Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket. The cat was somewhere. The book was open on her knees but she had stopped reading. Monday would come and she'd have to talk to him and the conversation wasn't going to go the way she wanted — she had known that for days. The afternoon stretched. She could have gotten up to do something useful but didn't see the point. The light changed on the far wall. She thought, this is the last Sunday like this. Then she sat with that.
