You’re doing it already, Eleanor. You’re braver and stronger than you give yourself credit for. Keep going.
When she smiled at me then, her whole face crinkled into warm lines. I dropped my head again, desperate to hide the emotion that flamed there.
The lump in my throat. The pricking of more tears, the swell of warmth.
I was safe here, I’d talk more about my sister soon, however hard it was going to be.
“See you next week, then?” I said. When I looked up, she was still smiling.
Later that day, Glen and I were watching a televisual game in which people with a fatally flawed understanding of statistics
(specifically, of probability theory) selected numbered boxes, each containing a check, to be opened in turn, in the hope of unearthing a six-figure sum.
They based their selections on wildly unhelpful factors such as their birth date or that of a person they cared about,
their house number or, worst of all, “a good feeling” about a particular integer.
“Humans are idiots, Glen,” I said, kissing the top of her head and then burying my face into her fur,
which had grown back with such resplendence that she could now afford to shed it all over my clothes and furniture with gay abandon.
She purred her assent. The doorbell rang. Glen yawned extravagantly then jumped down from my lap.
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