Who's having biscuits, so I'll know how many to make? He turned peaceful eyes to the kitchen, as if we weren't fighting. We look down the barrel of a gun, and we pull the trigger, and we shoot to stop. I thought I heard his jaw break. I'd just wanted control to mean it would be gone.
Maybe he'd regain 50 percent, maybe less mobility. His slender white hand appeared on my shoulder, a spill of white lace around it, and a flare of black velvet sleeve framing that lace. Sometimes twice a night, he said. Now it was too late, as long or longer to backtrack as go forward.
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