It was a dark and stormy night. I sat in the den, in an overstuffed recliner, another bourbon in hand.
It’d been a week since Eleanor died, suddenly. She said she didn’t feel well and went upstairs to rest. By sundown she was gone.
Behind me, branches smacked against siding. I drank, and counted. Seven days gone. Eleven months since our wedding. Three weeks until an anniversary trip, to the beach. One hundred, the number of times she brushed her hair before bed. Four, the number of children she wanted. Two boys, two girls. We were going to start trying after the trip.
I made my way to the bedroom, taking off my robe and sliding under the covers. I scooted to the figure on the other side, kissing Eleanor softly on the forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” I said, drifting to sleep to the sound of rain against the window.