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Angels 37
A Tales of Blue Story
“I thought maybe you were the answer — the way you’ve loved me, so intensely, so assured that it would last forever and that my love was so faultless — that I began to believe that maybe you were the cure.” She heard herself say the words but felt so far away, like the last winter wind falling from the mountain, vanishing like a spring whisper in the valley.
Owen sat so near to her that he was almost in her lap. With his head bowed and broad shoulders collapsed and curled inward, Veronica thought her husband looked like an eagle, soaked to the bone from the storm and exhausted, clinging to her, his tree of life, spent and withering. She felt his body trembling. She had broken the most perfect thing she had ever known.
His eyes burned. Blinking away tears, Owen stared at Veronica’s hands, childlike, her fingers eloquent and artistic, curled in his. He’d listened to his wife of sixteen years confess. He’d read through the papers from the red dossier she’d set on the table, listening more, then rereading each line. It was an impossible thing to believe. Sixteen years was nothing. Hardly a blur. He had loved Veronica from her first smile. It couldn’t be true — not her words or evidence — it was all wrong. He was only 40, Veronica 36. He felt the hopelessness in her pulse. Love like theirs didn’t just end.
