nostrils. She'd become used to anticipating the slightly metallic tang in her nostrils that let her know the painkiller was working and that soon her dark thoughts would leaven.
Angie felt a surge of anger at herself over her weakness. She capped her lipstick and tossed it into her makeup bag sitting open next to the sink. As she dabbed a tissue at the corner of her mouth, she considered herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked familiar, almost like the déjà vu brought about by a stranger's eye contact while passing on the street.
"I know you," she said aloud. "You used to laugh. You used to never worry about tomorrow."
Tomorrow worried her like nothing else, tomorrow and every other day that followed. Tomorrow would be a time of loss, another day in a growing string of days without Paul. And as more tomorrows became yesterdays, she feared losing the memories of Paul, both the good and the bad, and having him fade from her life completely.
She realized she'd started crying and that if she didn't get things under control, she would have to reapply her makeup. If she had to bother, she would never leave the house today. She dabbed her eyes, pressed her fingers to the dark bags beneath.
"You can do this, Ang. Stop being such a baby."
After a protracted breath that hitched deep in her chest, the next came more smoothly, and with the next, she felt like she might not fall apart at the slightest provocation.
She didn't necessarily miss her job. Before the accident, it had been a typically boring eight-hour ordeal of filing papers, keeping track of invoices and payroll, and answering phones. Now, nearly three months since that tragic evening, she was starting to miss the daily human contact. Even the thought of seeing her mother-in-law didn't make her cringe.
Her image in the mirror had resolved into something much more familiar. Angie Chandler now stared back at her. A slightly haggard, tired version of Angie Chandler, but at least it was a start. She grabbed her purse and lunch, ready to leave.
As she rushed toward the front door, Bizzy charged after her, wagging her tail, anticipating a walk in the woods.
"No, girl. This is for real. I'm going to work."
With the wagging of her tail diminished to a meager twitch, the dog seemed to frown up at her, as if she really understood the implication of Angie being gone all day.
"After work, I promise, we'll get out for a nice long walk." She said and kneeled down to scratch the little terrier behind the ears. "I know, I've been a bad Mommy. You've barely been out. And I know how you love it."
Bizzy let out a single excited bark.
"Tonight. I promise."
Bizzy wagged her tail again. Feeling like she'd salvaged something in their relationship, Angie grabbed her things and made it out to the car before she could change her mind.
Paul's Honda Pilot had been totaled, so that left her to drive her ten year-old Accord. The car still handled like a dream, and it was comforting easing into the worn leather seat when she climbed inside. She managed to key the ignition on the second try. She wouldn't even acknowledge the shaking of her hand as she pulled the transmission into drive, or how her fingers blanched as she gripped the steering wheel when she left the tree-lined confines of the curving gravel drive as the tires met asphalt.
It was only several minutes later, after a minivan with its horn blaring whipped around the Accord to pass her in the oncoming lane, that Angie realized she was cruising at a steady twenty miles an hour, half the legal speed limit.
"Okay, asshole, I hear you."
She punched the accelerator and brought the Accord to a respectable thirty-five, but her chest tightened at the increased speed. The leafless trees blurred by in a brown and steel-gray tumult, a chaotic riffle of empty gaps, denuded branches, and low-lying fog. She focused on the road ahead while trying to
Angie felt a surge of anger at herself over her weakness. She capped her lipstick and tossed it into her makeup bag sitting open next to the sink. As she dabbed a tissue at the corner of her mouth, she considered herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked familiar, almost like the déjà vu brought about by a stranger's eye contact while passing on the street.
"I know you," she said aloud. "You used to laugh. You used to never worry about tomorrow."
Tomorrow worried her like nothing else, tomorrow and every other day that followed. Tomorrow would be a time of loss, another day in a growing string of days without Paul. And as more tomorrows became yesterdays, she feared losing the memories of Paul, both the good and the bad, and having him fade from her life completely.
She realized she'd started crying and that if she didn't get things under control, she would have to reapply her makeup. If she had to bother, she would never leave the house today. She dabbed her eyes, pressed her fingers to the dark bags beneath.
"You can do this, Ang. Stop being such a baby."
After a protracted breath that hitched deep in her chest, the next came more smoothly, and with the next, she felt like she might not fall apart at the slightest provocation.
She didn't necessarily miss her job. Before the accident, it had been a typically boring eight-hour ordeal of filing papers, keeping track of invoices and payroll, and answering phones. Now, nearly three months since that tragic evening, she was starting to miss the daily human contact. Even the thought of seeing her mother-in-law didn't make her cringe.
Her image in the mirror had resolved into something much more familiar. Angie Chandler now stared back at her. A slightly haggard, tired version of Angie Chandler, but at least it was a start. She grabbed her purse and lunch, ready to leave.
As she rushed toward the front door, Bizzy charged after her, wagging her tail, anticipating a walk in the woods.
"No, girl. This is for real. I'm going to work."
With the wagging of her tail diminished to a meager twitch, the dog seemed to frown up at her, as if she really understood the implication of Angie being gone all day.
"After work, I promise, we'll get out for a nice long walk." She said and kneeled down to scratch the little terrier behind the ears. "I know, I've been a bad Mommy. You've barely been out. And I know how you love it."
Bizzy let out a single excited bark.
"Tonight. I promise."
Bizzy wagged her tail again. Feeling like she'd salvaged something in their relationship, Angie grabbed her things and made it out to the car before she could change her mind.
Paul's Honda Pilot had been totaled, so that left her to drive her ten year-old Accord. The car still handled like a dream, and it was comforting easing into the worn leather seat when she climbed inside. She managed to key the ignition on the second try. She wouldn't even acknowledge the shaking of her hand as she pulled the transmission into drive, or how her fingers blanched as she gripped the steering wheel when she left the tree-lined confines of the curving gravel drive as the tires met asphalt.
It was only several minutes later, after a minivan with its horn blaring whipped around the Accord to pass her in the oncoming lane, that Angie realized she was cruising at a steady twenty miles an hour, half the legal speed limit.
"Okay, asshole, I hear you."
She punched the accelerator and brought the Accord to a respectable thirty-five, but her chest tightened at the increased speed. The leafless trees blurred by in a brown and steel-gray tumult, a chaotic riffle of empty gaps, denuded branches, and low-lying fog. She focused on the road ahead while trying to
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