I had a hard time keeping up my end of the conversation, an observation not lost on him.
Tiny lines of stress ran under and around my eyes, and a single white hair was trying to hide among its dark brown siblings on my head. I pulled the pin out of my bun and let my tresses fall past my shoulders.
After plucking out the offending follicle, I searched vigorously for any more stragglers.
His bright future launched from a good education at Southern Methodist University, extinguished.
It was a look that harbored horrific fantasies of bloody vengeance.
It was that look that haunted me and had me on edge. Looking into the vanity mirror, I didn't like what I saw.
"Gracie, dinner's getting cold," my husband called, bringing me back into the present. My lack of sleep and nagging worries were taking their toll on my otherwise soft features.
The motion detection light over our garage seemed helpless to penetrate the blackness that surrounded our driveway like a heavy cloak.
"I am licensed to carry a firearm and I have it on me," I offered into the freezing darkness.
" my husband asked me, once I failed to follow what he was saying for the third time. I didn't have the courage to voice it out loud, not even to my husband. Your voice is always soothing, even when I can't hold up my end of the conversation," I told him. I didn't want to deprive him of his fun by asking him to come back Friday night.