BlotShe is like an ink-blot – this is what I thought. Dark, shapeless. I grew used to having her there, she became... part of the furniture. I felt happier, in some vague way, when she was present. And then one day I came down to breakfast. The room lay brilliant, stroked by sunbeams. But her face turned as I sat down; she looked not at me, but at the newspaper. It was the subtlest gesture, the slightest sign. And I felt slighted. Cut, to my very heart. I was surprised at the pain of it, and at how the ache persisted, as I drank my coffee and discovered I could not eat. The bread became tougher as I chewed. I glanced up, just twice, and yes, she was like an ink blot. The longer I looked, the more I saw in her.
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