s h e

chapter seventeen

The world is finally, finally, finally getting back to a semblance of normal.

Winnie gets up early and leaves cute domestic Post-It notes to the refrigerator. When you get home from the office, Winnie's making dinner. If you work late, she saves you both dinner and dessert in a tupperware box. Saturday nights are reserved for group hang outs, and Sunday mornings are for you and Winnie.

That's right.

Sunday board games have returned.

Unfortunately, Winnie's parents are fighting again and they've been calling her, trying to bring her into the fray. Both of them are playing the victim, and when she tries to tell them that she doesn't want to be a part of any of it, they turn on her.

She doesn't even look upset, just finished.

Speaking of finished, Winnie's almost finished with her album for the Leviathans. She had written almost a hundred songs for them to pick and choose from, and they've rejected all but ten.

"Three more," she sighs dejectedly, "three more until I'm done."

The Leviathans. Ugh.

In your time apart, you'd almost forgotten about the ever-present thorn in Winnie's side.

They're done with their court case, the charges dismissed. Winnie suspects not so legal methods, but she can't say anything.

Work for you has been fun.

Dean quit and moved to Florida.

Not because he was getting death threats or anything, why would that be happening?

Heh.

Lambeau is actually pretty okay, if you're being honest. At first, you were positive a dog was the last thing you wanted. But now, you live for the evening walks to the park, for the moments Winnie and Lambeau are wrestling for a tennis ball, for the split second Winnie glances back at you with a mischievous twinkle in those huge ocean eyes.

Life has been so good that you can almost forget what happened. It feels so far in the past now, but you know you'll never truly get rid of the memories of how close you were to losing her from your life. The scar on Winnie's thigh will forever be a reminder of the pain it took to sew you back together.

You'll say it again: Life has been good.

This morning feels off, though. You can't describe the feeling in the air, but you're sure that something's wrong.

Something clatters in the kitchen.

"Winnie?" You call out, your anxiousness increasing. She doesn't answer, of course. Because it's 7:45, and she had to be at work an hour ago. So the person on the kitchen isn't Winnie. You slowly creep around the wall, hoping whoever is there is friendly. Maybe it's Mrs. Francis again. She's been in your apartment a lot the past few weeks. She keeps mistaking your door for hers. Winnie keeps telling her to put her glasses on, but all it results in is a drawn out shouting match. She also has to remind her to put in her hearing aids. You're usually hiding from the noise.

There's more movement.

It's gotta be Mrs. Francis, right?

God, this is how everyone dies in horror movies.

When you round the corner, there's a plate of waffles on the counter. Birthday cake waffles.