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Mar 12, 2009 12:24

Angela's had a few calls and text messages from Jack this week.

They were all short and can all be summed up, "I'm fine, everything's okay, I can't go into it yet, I miss you, I love you, I'll be home soon."

His plane is landing "around seven" he says. Angela tries to narrow down where he might be coming from, but there's simply too much traffic through Dulles for that imprecise a time to be much help. And that's before she factors in connections.

(She has also considered recording his phone calls and trying to isolate background noises to try to figure things out. But it made her feel insane and ridiculous, so she didn't get any further than setting up the digital recorder.)

She's done a lot of painting this week -- canvases covered in dark, angry, confused whirls and slashes of color. She's pretty sure she'll wind up painting over all of them, but at least they give her something to do when she can't sleep.

At 7:00 on Saturday, she sits down on the couch nearest the front door to wait for Jack. (Cell phone, land line, and digital recorder all on the coffee table. Just in case.)

By 7:14, she's asleep.
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