It is. Because it has to be. Which means there isn't another option.
Barbara hung up the towel for her drying hair on one of the hooks, avoiding catching her face in the mirror as she did. She knows what she'd find there. Which is also fine. Everything will be. Mostly, if she doesn't replay the words she'd turned from. The awkwardness and earnestness, sincerity and empathetic concern, there. It's not like she needs more proof that Dick is who says he is, excepting that ... he just keeps being himself.
Barbara's fingertips caught the small switch, turning off the bathroom light, before she slipped back out that door. There's nothing else to do but take her own advice, too. Divest herself of the all-too-pink robe over this be-ribboned nightgown, which at least doesn't come with more sleeves, given she has to open up more of the blanket to get her feet and the rest of the nightgown in without it getting the expanse of fabric caught or twisted about.
She knows better than to think Dick is asleep yet. He's too still, and his breathing is too measured.
But at least he is lying down, and he's not just watching her currently. Which thinking only gives her the urge to look over at him more, herself, and instead she reaches out for the switch on the lamp on her side of the bed. Inky darkness suddenly swallows the room, and she settles back. Curling up on her side and into her pillow, facing toward the lamp. The strange dichotomy of place and time, and company, makes her think of something—someone else— and she hopes that Haley is fine back home in this unexpected absence.
no subject
Which means there isn't another option.
Barbara hung up the towel for her drying hair on one of the hooks, avoiding catching her face in the mirror as she did. She knows what she'd find there. Which is also fine. Everything will be. Mostly, if she doesn't replay the words she'd turned from. The awkwardness and earnestness, sincerity and empathetic concern, there. It's not like she needs more proof that Dick is who says he is, excepting that ... he just keeps being himself.
Barbara's fingertips caught the small switch, turning off the bathroom light, before she slipped back out that door. There's nothing else to do but take her own advice, too. Divest herself of the all-too-pink robe over this be-ribboned nightgown, which at least doesn't come with more sleeves, given she has to open up more of the blanket to get her feet and the rest of the nightgown in without it getting the expanse of fabric caught or twisted about.
She knows better than to think Dick is asleep yet.
He's too still, and his breathing is too measured.
But at least he is lying down, and he's not just watching her currently. Which thinking only gives her the urge to look over at him more, herself, and instead she reaches out for the switch on the lamp on her side of the bed. Inky darkness suddenly swallows the room, and she settles back. Curling up on her side and into her pillow, facing toward the lamp. The strange dichotomy of place and time, and company, makes her think of something—someone else— and she hopes that Haley is fine back home in this unexpected absence.