There is a hole in the wall. I don’t always see it, blinded by the sunlight from the window, but when you move, the light moving with you, I see that the hole is there – behind you, hidden, in the wall. For what it’s worth; do you see it, too?
He loved her until no more.
The note in her hand didn’t glow rays of golden light, nor did it emit the scent of everything good in the universe. It had no beautiful calligraphy, no seal, and no instant redemption jumping up at you from the paper – which was fine, really, because when had a divorce ever been golden?