She has already cried by 10am that morning, a little before work. Breathing, smiling heavily and pausing through a phone call.
Shortly, it would be adequate, fine. His voice would no longer be honeycomb to her, but it would be fine.
In that day when they walked everywhere there was an echo, an antediluvian thrill, all that feeling perished at once. It must have been written into her fingertips, expected in the arched shapes. Releasing back into the trail of sped up time positioning the pad of paper, lipstick tube and gungy pen upright and proper in the pocket.