She watches him, his breathing, the way he picks up a plate—it’s all the same, yet completely foreign. He sits at the end of the long table, the large oak chair resembling a throne. With his right hand, he picks up his wine glass. How did he take a drink before? She can’t remember. The …
What I had with John was a thunderstorm. It was full of lightening and wind and drama and passion.
The Jarlena Journal 