A year went by, we handled our mourning in separate, different ways. Trish sold all her possessions. She sold her house, anything that reminded her of...Nathan and kept only photographs and some small trinkets of his. Me? I kept everything of Monica’s. I think I was handling it worse. I came home the night after she had died, to grieve in solitary. I tried to sleep in my bed, every time I rolled over, I saw no one next to me, my shoulder would sing out in agony, bruised to hell where they popped. It was clear that she would need little excuse to take out her frustrations on Bernard.His supervisor was a bulky woman. The weather had been hot and Bernard couldn’t avoid noticing the sweat stains spreading out under the armpits of her blouse. A half-eaten pork pie sat on a plate on her desk. Knowing her enthusiasm for food, Bernard guessed that its unfinished state was the most eloquent evidence possible of a day disturbed by events and activities not of her choosing. The way that her ankles. More

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