The Darker Side of the Artistic Spirit
It was about ten in the morning, and Ali was staring forlornly at her schoolbooks. Up for seven hours now, after only a few hours in bed, the words across the page were determined to continue their game of hide and seek without regard for her attempts to study. Finally she closed her books and laid her head atop them, closing her eyes for a moment.
Oh, how she wanted to go back to bed. She would have, if there'd been time, tried to catch a little more sleep when she got home; but after getting Henry put to bed, it was nearly time to get the goslings up and off to school. Ali still wondered what had happened to Henry to upset him so much. They'd parted amiably enough, and further discussion of their project seemed to go well.
So why did he, drunk and angry, call her at three in the morning to accuse her of being a liar and worse?
And why did that upset her so much?
He had a lot of explaining to do when he woke up.
Oh, how she wanted to go back to bed. She would have, if there'd been time, tried to catch a little more sleep when she got home; but after getting Henry put to bed, it was nearly time to get the goslings up and off to school. Ali still wondered what had happened to Henry to upset him so much. They'd parted amiably enough, and further discussion of their project seemed to go well.
So why did he, drunk and angry, call her at three in the morning to accuse her of being a liar and worse?
And why did that upset her so much?
He had a lot of explaining to do when he woke up.