At noon the warm cherry-faced sun kissed the back of her
neck: lies. At midnight, the drafty-crack wind in the doorjamb crept up her arms, popping
goose bumps: truth. She imagined warm skin under cloudy blankets, that not all
lack of light meant cold. But tonight it did. The bored conversation in her
mind sighed like two washerwomen hanging sheets by pins and hooks, gossiping
over the line. She saw the linens, his shrouded face. Eye contact minimal,
chattering teeth and thoughts: when he did come home, he would bring the cold
with him, smelling of snow, soap, and sweat.
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