Insomnia, she decides, is her subconscious telling her that she will die alone if she doesn’t figure herself out. The tree outside her window taps an irregular heart rhythm and the creaky sound of her wooden house in the wind ceases to be amusing somewhere around three a.m. The sheets still smell of him. That’s her problem. They never really did ( Read more... )

This is not a love story. She does not drink tequila. He doesn’t let her. The rain comes pouring down the eaves of their roof in time with her tears. Slow then strong, another Seattle storm and she is green silent slivers of wet walking out the front door into everyday cataclysm. He follows; stands beside her with his hands in his pockets, barefoot ( Read more... )