After sixty more seconds at the foot of the stairs, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief and kept moving. She turned on the light over the stove, pushing the semi-darkness of the kitchen to the edges of the tile floor, and turned toward the fridge. Then she gasped again.
“Hush now,” the enthusiastic magnet letters urged her, “it was just a nightmare.”
He’d known her longer than anyone else. She’d taught him about love and life. About what it meant to be a man and how to treat a woman. She had seen him at his worst—his depression; his divorce. She’d seen him at his best—his first promotion; his first child.
A freaky but acceptable phenomenon, we thought. Something to chat about at parties and school. We never dreamed more would follow.
When the next cloud fell—and more followed—a week later, we knew this was no singular phenomenon.