A fragment of a story I’m fleshing out, delivered in microstory fashion…
Whenever she looked back on their relationship she realized she remembered it with warmth, a fondness. He always had a way of making her feel as if she were wrapped in a wool blanket. Even through the whiskey kisses and slurred words and besides; it’s not as though he was bad to her. He never hit her, never talked down to her. No, there were never any problems, except –
As far back as he could remember he had that little issue. He never realized he had a problem until one day his mother screamed bloody murder and dragged him in front of every doctor, specialist, priest and medicine man. It was never immediately apparent and explaining over the phone solved nothing. No, his malady was only evident to the keen eye, on a sunny day, or under a directed shine. Otherwise you couldn’t tell his shadow leaned into the light.
