“Look at it this way,” Mark said. “It’s a job. I agreed to do it, and I needed to come up here. But that doesn’t take away the dull pain that’s pulling my insides down into the ground.”
He always exaggerated. I mean, like really – Ross had been dead for five years, and Sunday would be a year since Wayne died.
“Honey, you have know idea what it’s like to be in this house,” Mark rattled on, that over-serious pontification creeping into his voice, as always simultaneous with that over-sharpened contempt creeping into my cerebellum. “The walls are pure white now. There’s one painting on each wall when there used to be ten. Nothing’s on the kitchen counters. The cabinets are empty. The closets are almost empty –“
“Mark, I think you need to go to the Maidstone tonight.”
“That’s $800 a night. But the pug pix, sweetheart … that just got me sobbing. I know I said it before, but I got to say it again. I can’t stay here. It’s too damned depressing.”
“Look at it this way,” I said, “you always change your mind.”
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